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E D A L A I N E : 



A METRICAL ROMANCE. 



B V 

F. ROENA MED INI. 






. 



NEW YORK: 

COPYRIGHT, 1891, BT ' ^-^ 

G. IV. Dillingham, Publisher, 

Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 

MDCCCXCII. 
{All Rights Reserved^ 



PS**? 



To Her 

whose memory is a heritage above price ; atf 

example of a great soul ; a noble mind j 

a meek spirit and proud bearing, 

this volume is inscribed by a 

Daughter 

who was nurtured in the sunshine of a 

mother's unbounded love. 



Since she doth sleep, — laurel or rue y 
' Tis one to me. 



EDALAINE, 



BOOK I. 

Far in the North, where winter halves the year, 
A peaceful summer scene in memory dwells, 
Above, a canopy of azure pure ; 
Beneath, its counterpart — a tapestry 
Of living green, whose hues are multiplied 
By every passing breeze, and which like seas, 
In restless waves receding from their shores, 
In soft and rhythmic undulations, rolls 
From rocky cliffs, to melt like morning mist 

In shadowy outlines of the fringing air. 

[7] 



8 Edalai?ie. 

A prairie broad, where naught but nature's self 
The harmonies of sight and silence blends, 
Where all is life, and yet no conscious life 
Is found, except the crimson-throated bird 
That darts on high, and then descends to wheel 
With lazy wing above the shuddering grass. 
Where gentle zephyrs bear across the plain 
The clouds to cast a shade, or chase a ray 
Of glittering sun far o'er the changing scene. 
Amidst these rolling plains, these prairies vast, 
There slept a valley, watched unnumbered years 
By jealous eye of day, ere man appeared. 
Like beauteous Gyneth in her sleep, the vale 
Is robed in lustrous garb, and all the charm 
Of nature's wealth is laid upon her breast. 
Such garniture of leaf and vine was here, 
When first the vale imprisoned sight of man, 
The gentle falling slope seemed nest of bird, 
Whose frame of bending twigs and clinging grass 



Edalaine. 9 

Is softly lined with silky leaves of green. 

For miles around, North, East, and South and 

West, 
Tall grasses wave like helmits plumed, or bend 
To breathe o'er heads of wildwood ferns or flowers, 
A symphony of chivalry and love. 
And through the vale, like moonlight's trembling 

ray, 
That draws a silken thread o'er sleeping seas, 
There windeth, too, a line of gleaming light, 
Which breaks into a brooklet's murmuring song, 
And lulls the listener's anxious heart to rest. 
And from its sheen perchance was born the name 
It bears of Silver Creek, unless it be 
From glimpse of tiny fish with silvery scales, 
That idly float on crystal wave, or leap 
To catch the sun and make the glittering drops 
From off their sides, flash changeful rainbow tints 
Then, sinking back amidst the mossy rocks, 



10 



Edalaine. 



Leave eddying circles where they disappear, 
To dart with lightning speed beneath the wave. 
At times the stranger lingered as he passed, 
To meditate, and felt himself upborne 
To sense of higher needs in human hearts, 
And wondered as he stood, all loth to leave, 
Why beauty such as this so long escaped 
The eye of man, world-weary and in search 
Of such a home as might give lasting rest. 
For peace, that builds her nest afar from noise 
Of crowded towns, here brooded, and the spell 
She wove in harmony with nature's own, 
Had power to make one feel the pulse of God 
Here beat in holy nature's rhythmic life. 
And Reverence, long dead to worldly men, 
Here touched to living springs the human heart. 
A rocky glen was hid beneath the hills 
That bound the northern side, a place where one 
In woven dreams would build the fairies' home. 



Edalaine. 1 1 

Th' anemones that scarce could blush to hues 
Not borrowed from the snow, until their white 
Was mixed with purple that Aurora lent 
To them ! Were these not fairies peeping forth 
From earth, while yet the snow in patches decked 
The ground ? 

Then when the spring brought perfumed air, 
They came as violets like bits of sky 
To dot the mossy banks, while overhead 
The lichens clinging to the trees, subdued 
To quaker garb of silver gray, what else 
Had seemed too bright a scene. 

At autumn time, 
The fairies flee before the clan that stay 
And seize the glen and revel gypsy-wise, — 
A yearly week of rout and carnival, 
And then the glen to merry shout and jest, 
To laughter loud awakes. Prolonged halloos 
Start timid beasts from out their lair, to speed 



1 2 Edalaine. 

From sounds that bode them ill. But flight pro- 
vokes 
A gay pursuit across the fields, and through 
The glen, of rabbit, squirrel or deer, full sure 
If lost, another day will bring them down 
To click of steel as pitiless as sure. 
Rough men and browner women they, whose cares 
Ne'er led them ask what copse would shelter them 
At night, and none e'er knew from whence they 

came, 
Or whither went these merry wanderers. 
One year, when miracles revealed themselves 
In tiny blades that pierced the sod, to give 
A spring-time greeting to the sun, when buds 
Burst bonds (like butterflies whose chrysalids 
We thought the sign of death), to spread their 

wings 
And flutter o'er the waking earth, there stood 
Beside the stream a son of toil, who brought 



E declaim. I \ 

The simplest tools of builder's art, to make 
The hills from morn till night resound to strokes 
That echoed o'er the jagged cliffs, as if 
Each echo were a foot-fall of the past, 
That fled before the coming of the new. 
At first the branching oak and stately pine, 
That firm as warriors gainst the pelting lead 
Of armed hosts, had warded off the blasts 
Of winter storms and stood a hundred years, 
He felled, bringing to nature's law the art 
Of man. For days he toiled, until, restrained 
% ru gged walls he raised ; the darkling stream 
Had paused to mirror on its placid face 
The laughing sky, in mimic lake that stayed 
Awhile, then leaped its boundaries to be 
Again the brooklet of our song, and then 
Beneath his iron hand there grew a mill, 
And then the stridulous saw, in mocking tones 
Sang victory o'er the bleeding grove that long 



14 Edalaine. 

Had stood a sentinel before the glen. 

Perhaps this song that seemed to selfish men 

A cheerful lay, lured other sturdy men 

To this fair spot, for soon a street was laid, 

Rude homes were built, and then, not yet content, 

A church with modest spire, behold a town ! 

Too soon the spoilers learned whence came the 

wood, 
And like a scar that lives, a haunting ghost 
Or gloomy sepulchre which marks the spot 
Where innocence a victim fell to crime, 
Of all the trees the rugged stumps alone, 
(Sad tablets of the soil), were left to prove, 
Dame nature had, by years of care, endowed 
The vale with forest trees, her hardier work, 
And then, as if she long designed that man 
Should know remorse, she paused. No later 

growth 
Had she brought forth to give to eager man 



Edalaine. 15 

Such sad employ. And so, full soon, the mill, 
Denied of food for hungry maw, like some 
Gaunt vulture, chained upon the whittling bones 
That he had stripped, becomes a skeleton 
Through which the tempest whistles dolefully 
Then prone to earth it falls to meet decay. 
The church itself grew brown ; and happier he 
Who trod the pulpit's narrow range, than they 
Who cramped themselves on benches rudely made, 
To hear a message drawn throughout an hour, 
By dint of lengthy words and gestures fierce, 
That save as task work he had told in half 
The time. 

Long years was this before our tale 
Begins. The stones beneath the dam were black 
With slime, and only snakes on summer days 
Betook themselves to this old spot to bask 
In sunshine. Coiled in glittering rings they 
blinked 



1 6 Edalainc. 

Or slept in lazy comfort, nor took pains 

To charm a careless bird that chanced too near. 

One day, when disappeared the sun in space 

Behind the western hill, and left a glow 

Of promise for a new and perfect day, 

A band of earnest men and women paused 

Upon the summit of the hill, and gazed 

With weary, aching limbs, and throbbing brows, 

Upon the vale where shrub and leafy tree, 

Half hid, and half revealed the spire, the school, 

And winding road that passed close by the mill. 

A silence fell upon both young and old. 

The haven here was found at last, to lay 

The corner-stone of faith which they believed 

Would falsify all lesser creeds, and bring 

The earthly happiness which mortals crave. 

A solemn prayer arose from out each heart, 

And silently they went adown the hill 

To this new life which promised all to them, 



Edalaine. 1 7 

Yet to how few it kept its promises ! 

Time prospered them, — this band that wish'd to 

prove 
The world at fault in only selfish aims, 
And gave up all to mutual help and love. 
Alas, such trials oft by earnest souls 
Have failed, nor can we chide them for their good 
Intent, — for they have suffered most to find 
That souls there are, too small, too weak to bear 
The burden of the unattempted rights, 
And only serve to mar the brave attempts 
Of nobler souls they fail to comprehend. 
They dwelt as brothers should, while strictly 

bound 
Within the rules that marked their new belief, 
Or rather old belief, and new endeavor. 
They daily gathered round the cheering board, 
One common kin, ignoring ties of blood. 
And those who came to join their swelling ranks, 



1 8 E da lame. 

Endowed with greater wealth, as freely gave 
Into the common store, as if all things 
He used before had never been his own. 
And thus they prospered, till the name they chose 
Of Phalanx spread abroad ; and to its fold 
Were added thoughtful, noble, learned men. 
And here events as elsewhere on the earth, 
Swift followed each to burn in human hearts, 
The memories that serve as mile-stones oft 
Upon the rugged road that leads through life. 
Forever rushing toward the goal we hope 
Is yet remote, we hasten on with speed 
That's ever undiminished, hot to meet 
We know not what, and yet assured 'tis death. 
A day of mirth, a hush that seemed like death, 
Brought change or care, made hearts beat gay or 

sad, 
Now touched one lintel, now passed by to pause 
And tap upon a worthy neighbor's door. 



Edalaine. 19 

Three years had passed, and Andrew Grant, who 

came 
With children six to swell, with manly pride, 
The chorus of the dreaming Fourierites, 
Had builded him a roomy house of stone, 
Which mother earth had yielded him with strong 
Resistance, yet, I ween, with less of pain 
Then when she saw the budding trees cut down, 
And felt within her veins the milk she fed 
Them with, first over-run and then turn dry. 
And why was this? Ask thou the mother heart, 
Which claims her painful care, the child that draws 
From her his daily life, or him who stands 
No longer nurtured by her rich, warm blood ! 
Good Andrew Grant, unmindful of dumb earth, 
Felt much of pride in this his noble work, 
And hastened to complete it, there to give 
With parent's fond demur, his eldest born, 
Elizabeth, in wedlock to John Holme, 



20 Edalaine. 

The miller's son, the bravest huntsman round. 
And blessings manifold were on them shower'd, 
While parents sigh'd and said, " 'Tis such events 
That warn us life indeed is short, our babes 
But yesterday, to-day, alas, are gone ! '' 
In winter time the younger folk took joy 
In sports wherein the elders saw no ill, 
And simple dances marked to time of flute 
And viol, filled the happy evening hours. 
So winter passed, when came the bans of one 
They greatly loved, and here it seemed that not 
The mazes of the dance had linked two hearts, 
For he whose flute made dreamily the waltz 
Go round, would never dance : u My brains/' he 

said, 
11 Were never meant to guide my awkward feet.' 7 
But certainly his eyes had dwelt full oft 
Upon a fragile form, that midst the dance 
Had woven webs to catch unwary hearts. 



Edalaine. 21 

And so Dean Brent awoke to lay aside 

His flute, and bravely woo the shrinking maid. 

'Twas this event that brought to them Dame Ann, 

His kindly mother, straight from Edinburgh. 

41 'Twas hard," she said, 4 'just found, to gie him 

up," 
And none had dreamed, I ween, how deep her 

grief 
Took root, and none perhaps could understand 
Her loneliness, unless it be the wife 
Of Andrew Grant, Dame Evelyn ; whose heart 
Was filled with generous love for all mankind, 
And touched with sympathies so swift and sure, 
She straight could read and feel their griefs e'en 

when, 
For good to them, she gaily laughed and sought 
To make them seem scarce worthy of a sigh. 
And yet what charm of nature could replace 
The chain of habit in the aged, born 



2 2 Edalaine". 

'Mid smoke, and stir, and roll of wheels, and din 

Of city life ? The bells that toll'd a death ; 

That chimed the evening call to prayer ; the bells 

That merrily a marriage rite proclaimed, 

Or angrily did beat their iron tongues 

Against the sounding brass in wild dismay, 

Lest unaware the dwellers of its streets, 

Too late, alas, should find themselves wrapped round 

By fire, — all these, within the quiet vale 

Were never heard. The very Sabbath day 

Itself seemed not the same, but changed to peace 

Of country life, its beauty was to her 

A sealed book and cause of vague unrest. 

But angels, not unmindful of the tired 

And lonely soul, caught first a wish that springs 

From earnest loving hearts , a ray of sun 

To link to cheerfulness a seed of truth ; 

A kiss of innocence and chastity ; 

An atom of humanity, and pledged 



Edalaine. 23 

Them all to keeping of Dame Evelyn, 

Who lived in noble practices the dower 

Of beauteousness she prayed to give her child. 

" She shall be pure and true,'' she said, and faith 

Made fairer yet the mother's countenance, 

And virtuous herself, no wrong would come 

To chill the blood within her womb. She sought 

In all her vision rested on, the fair 

And loveliest. Like mirror to reflect 

Within its darkling depths, what passes o'er 

Its face, so, she believed : " Whate'er my soul 

Doth know, doth feel, doth contemplate, shall stay 

Reflected on the mind of this my child,, 

What joy to be the chosen instrument 

Of God in leaving impress on our seed !" 

She read, and when her thoughts revealed the true, 

Or pure, or noble in the word of man, 

Philosopher, or poet born, she said : 

" So would I that my child interpreted 






24 Edalaine. 

The good of life.'' She gazed upon a work 

Of art, and lingered long upon its points 

Of excellence, to form the younger life 

To observation close which can alone 

Perfect. A spirit dwelt beside her, which 

She taught, and teaching thus she grew herself. 

In dreams of good to man and pray'r to God, 

Dame Evelyn's steps seemed now no more of 

earth. 
All attributes of life, its sympathies, 
Its tender helpfulness and mercy shown, 
Fair truth, unselfishness and saving word, 
All graces, virtues that she wished bestowed, 
She lived, and shrank with horror from the faults 
That would have marred a perfect life. 

Where found 
She most these practices ? Upon the hearth 
Of home, whose toil began at break of day, 
And ended not till clocks had toll'd their length 



E da I ain e. 25 

Of hours, to turn and count them yet again. 

Avarice, envy, malice, all were robbed 

Of poisonous intent, by charity ; 

By love of neighbor as herself and more. 

The wholesome practice of the Golden Rule. 

" I do to them as I would have my child 

Done by." The petty trials that beset 

This life, could touch her not. An angry word, 

Complaint, or peevishness met such a look 

Of gentleness, such ready, calm reply, 

It quieted the troubled breast like balm 

Upon a burning wound, an angel's touch 

Whose wing had chanced to dip too near the earth. 

And so it was, a presence sanctified, 

Her spirit walked with God, her feet with men. 

An angel might have lost his holiness, 

Combining thus the ills of life with will 

Of God. They might ? Nay, we belie belief. 

It is not death that gives the angel birth, 



26 Edalaine. 

'Tis He, that, schooled on earth, has beautified 
A nature prone to fault, till God-like, bears 
He impress of the noble right to act 
For God, throughout the spaces of the high 
And glorious kingdom of perfected souls. 
Oh, heart of mothers ! You alone can know 
The rapture born within the soul when rilled 
With consciousness of power to make or mar 
A budding life ! Oh, days of hope and trust ; 
Of fear and pain ; of doubt and helplessness ; 
Inevitable mysteries of birth and death ! 
Of dreamings in the expectant mother's heart, 
Of fancies built on fret-work of desire ! 
What most she loves is colored in these dreams. 
What most desires, in minds of men observes, 
And scarcely conscious of the wish, a prayer 
Like incense wafts its perfume to the skies, 
And thus sustained by nature's yoke she bears 
Of shadowed martyrdom, the mother walks 



Edalaine, 2 7 

With joy : — " For though I die,'' — faith speaks — 

" my child 
May live, her sweetness tempering ills of life, 
Her truth disarming sin.'' 

Though seventh bairn 
Of Andrew Grant and Mistress Evelyn, 
The love that waited her, intensified 
By feeling that she was the last, could note 
The touch of angel hands, and so they called 
Her Edalaine and prayed ''that faith might guide 
Her life till angels roll'd the stone from off 
The tomb of buried hopes, to give them back 
Again." So said Dame Evelyn that night. 
At first the eyes that opened to the day, 
Seemed violets that glistened through a lake 
Of morning dew, and then, as if the sun 
Had mixed its red with blue of skies and touched 
Once more the orbs that glowed with laughter ere 
The lips could form a radiant smile ; these depths 



28 Edalaine. 

That prophesy a soul's expanse were turned 
To purple hues. With passing summer months 
The angels touched her eyes again, this time 
With hues they borrowed from the brownest leaf 
Of autumn, or the chestnut as it falls 
To catch the glint of setting sun that warms 
Its brown with ruddy gold. 

Sweet eyes ! They brought 
A benediction in their glance. But most 
Of all the blessings fell in lonely heart 
Of good Dame Ann, who called her " Peaceful 

Eyes," 
And straight declared her born to some great work 
On earth, to which the mother ready gave 
Assent. " She's born to be the comforter 
Of fast approaching wintry days, the sun 
And light of seared and yellow age. What life 
Its plenitude to richer charity 
Bestowed, could mortals find?'' But silently 



Edalaine. 29 

The other turned to hide a starting tear, 
That, midst the furrows of her browned face, 
Found paths washed deeply in by bitter brine 
Of griefs, now wept a score of dreary years. 
Then, gazing down upon the sleeping child 
With something like a sob that stirred her voice, 
She spoke : t( I ken its like, guid wife, but then, 
You see, I thocht the same o' my wee lad, 
And now he's ta'en a braw young wife wha's guid 
As gowd, and means, I dinna doot, to be 
As kind to me as my ain lass, but then, 
Ye ken, I canna feel, though fain I would, 
There's muckle need o' me about the house, 
When a' is said, and if the morn's fair sun 
Looked down on me nae mair, its a' the same 
To Wullie there." " Fie, Fie, Dame Ann, thy 

heart 
Hath played thee false, thy spirit's sight is dark, 



3<D Edalaine. 

Surcharged with spleen. How gladly, when my 

child 
Hath safely reached the poise of womanhood, 
Shall I give o'er my care to one whose love 
Will guard and waken her to life she else 
Would never know ! And think you then, I lose 
My child ? No, no ! A son is won ! The heart 
So narrow that it loves but one, loves not 
So well, and mother heart that lavished love 
While yet the sleeping bud had never seen 
The light, must love her child but for the need 
Of loving, nor asks love's return again. 
And thy good son, hast thou not yet his face 
To look upon ; his voice to hear, his care 
To prove devotedness? " And here a shade 
Fell o'er the sill to slant from off the porch. 
" Well said, good Mistress Evelyn, I ween 
My mother lacks thy seeing mind. Methinks 



Edalaine. 31 

My manhood frets her more than cares she knew 

In early years. She mourns her babe for aye, 

Nor can she think, in spite of all my words, 

That Jeannie there, and I, count her in all 

Our hopes of joy, our grief, sole lack of pow'r 

To banish from her past its memories 

Of loss ! " " Ah, lad ! " and Dame Ann smiled 

through tears, 
'• Ye ken, wae's me ! ye're mither's aulder grown, 
And aibleens like a bairn, yeVe nocht to do 
But bear wi a' her thrawart ways, and think 
Ife were not ever thus." " Aye, aye ! v replied 
The son with fond embrace, " there's few sae braw 
To look upon e'en yet, just look at this," 
And off comes Dame Ann's cap to bare her head. 
''What blushing maiden in our town is crowned 
With silky, waving hair like that ? Its brown 
Is tinged with burnished gold, that through its veins 



32 Edalaine. 

Runs safely hid till light of sun reveals 
It there. And then these pearls ! Bright senti- 
nels 
Of Epicurius! one only, gone, 
Ail sacrificed to small a thing as pin 
That held a ribbon to my kite. One day 
I plead her aid to make it fast, and she — 
'Tis not ingratitude that bids me say't — 
Was quite as much the child as I, that risk'd 
Her lovely teeth to pinch the rebel pin 
To place. And how I cried when, with a scream, 
She caught the broken ivory in her hand ! 
And she, ■ Hist, hist ! my lad, ye mauna greet, 
Else father hear, and we mun tell him a'.' 
" Ha ! ha ! we made a bonny pair of kids, 
Hey, mother, were ye not a saunsie lass ?" 
" Tut, tut, ye sport my poor Scotch tongue and 

yet 
Ye have ye're father's laughter-loving way 



Edalaine. $$ 

Of flattering one, an' now yeVe waked the bairn, 
An' mussed my cap, so get ye hence to mow 
Ye're hay." " I see, my nose has summit wrong, 
A joint awry ! 'Twill be this babe, that soon 
Will muss ye're caps and play the truant o'er 
Your days." And so it fell, indeed the child 
Became a tiny despot o'er the life 
Of Mistress Ann. 

Yet not exempt from griefs 
Were those who dwelt within the charmed vale, 
As years, by their events, made short or long, 
Passed on and brought fair gifts of love to some, 
To others griefs that time could not assuage. 
Death came and went. Sometimes he reaped the 

aged, 
Sometimes the fairest flowV that bloomed, as if 
Jealous that earth should be so bright, so glad. 
One summer day, when nature seemed to doze 
And trees to languish 'neath their weight of fruit, 



34 Edalaine. 

A golden day, when drowsy hum of bees, 
That paused to taste with lazy sips the sweets, 
That lurk deep sunk in fragrant cups of blue, 
Of white or gold, then paused inert upon 
The swinging edge, to seek some other field 
Of spoil, — the carol of a girlish voice 
Awoke the birds like flash of sun against 
The shade. 

Oh, Rose 
Of Summer quest, 
Rests in thee no thorn? 
Oh, bird in thy nest, 
Wert thou haply born ? 
Shadows fall from every tree, 
Why not they on you and me 
Courage, heart, 
Do not start, 
At a falling leaf. 



Edalaine. 35 

Elizabeth, as fair and bright to-day 

As on that bridal morn when love endowed 

Her life with his, came forth to watch John 

Holme's 
Return. The song that kissed her lips to thrill 
The air with sweetest melody, to die 
Of sadness born of fleeting rapture, yet 
To kiss, in other notes, her lips' bright red, 
Had ceased, till, silently she stood, and then, 
As if the flowers had begged the boon to give 
Their lives for ecstacy of one full hour 
Upon her breast, she clustered crimson buds 
Against a leaf of green, and swiftly here 
And there, amidst the purple of her braids, 
Had nestled them. Herself a flower abloom 
In creamy white, her dark rich beauty more 
Resplendent 'midst its falling drapery, 
And dreamily, as if her twittering friends, 



36 E da lame. 

The birds, had whispered her: ''Add other 

flowers, " 
She touched her robes with gleaming buds of rose, 
Until Titania ne'er was crowned more fair. 
And thus she sang : 

Oh, Rose 
In Autumn air 
Hast thou felt no chill? 
Oh, love so fair, 
Fears thy heart no ill ? 
Ne'er was sun without a shade ; 
Life of care and joy is made, 

Faint not, heart, 

Bear thy part, 
Through a bitter grief ! 

When music of her voice had ceased in waves 
Of sound that left her lips to ring through space, 
To disappear amidst ethereal blue, 



Edalaine. 37 

Like angel footsteps, or the sigh of man, 

A clock chimed forth the hour with weird strokes, 

Till with the fifth, a whirr of wheels announced 

It was the last! A faint surprise crept o'er 

Her face, then faded there. " He's late," she 

said, 
" I wonder why," and then from tree to shrub, 
From bird to flower, as bright and restless grown, 
As e'er the restless wings of humming bird, 
Whose remulous beat keep time to troubled 

thoughts, 
She glided, while she waited anxiously. 
Ten minutes passed, when down the shady road 
Her husband's dog came rushing madly through 
The dust, his coat of shaggy black all wet 
And mixed with weeds that line with slimy lengths 
The muddy depths above the mill. His haste 
Was not of joy, his eyes with anxious sight 
Appeal'd to her, and heedless of her robe 



38 Edalaine. ■ 

He jumped to lay his paws upon her arm 
And gave a piteous cry to call her back 
When puzzled and amazed she gazed away 
As if her husband's coming must be brief, 
And yet this cry smote on her straining ear 
A message sharp and bitter, plain because 
Unused to aught but joy expressing, speech 
Yet unprepared, foreboding swept her down 
And like a stricken deer, the huntsman's prey, 
She, pale and white, sank 'midst the fragrant 

flowers, 
Nor felt, nor knew how bravely then he strove, 
By nature's true, unerring instinct taught, 
To wake again to life the fluttering pulse 
That now refused to beat. At last, assured 
His efforts were in vain, he gave a cry 
Of grief, and then again drew back to gaze 
Upon the pallid face, perhaps to raise 
An agonized thought to some unknown 



Edalaine. 39 

And stronger power, then bounded o'er the field, 
Till at the old stone school he paused. The door 
Was closed. Two hours before, the green had 

ceased 
To echo back the calls, the laughs and shouts 
Of merry children's sport. But not deterred 
By doubts that human minds might then have felt, 
He sprang upon the window ledge, and woke 
The stern old master from his dreams by quick 
And vig'rous pulls upon his threadbare coat. 
The master gazed at first with mute surprise, 
And then, he seemed to see a human pain 
Within the eyes that looked to him, that chilled 
The blood within his aged heart. He seized 
His hat, and followed hastily the steps 
Of his dumb guide. They passed the busy town, 
And met nor man nor beast upon their way. 
Howbeit, at the broken bridge arose 
A stooping form that held by hand a bright 



40 Edalaine. 

And winsome child. How fleet is time ! The 

babe, 
Sweet Edalaine, was queen o'er all thro' love, 
And bore the stature of her five short years 
Imperious as a queen, that blends with it 
Sweet modesty. 

The master seeing them 
A moment paused and cried : " Good eve, Dame 

Ann. 1 ' 
You have not chanced to see our worthy friend, 
John Holme?" and raised the while his hat to 

wipe 
The beads of crystal from his brow. " Aye, that 
I have, guid mon, not ha' an hour aback, 
Wi' gun in han', an' after that I heard 
The gun resound, an' said until mysel', 
The cruel sport the lad's begun. I wo'd 
He'd see the fearfu' sin o't." " I fear the worst," 



Edalaine. 41 

The master said. " Would you, good Dame, make 

haste 
To seek his wife and friends, and send me aid 
To look for him?" "Aye, that I wull, guid mon ! 
A better lad ne'er lived, except it be 
My ain guid bairn, my Wullie there." But ere 
Her words were done, the master scaled the fence, 
And stood upon the only plank that crossed 
The wild and roaring waters of the dam. 
It yielded to his weight., but did not break, 
And pausing not to think of dangerous ways, 
Nor of defeat in searching for his friend, 
He hastened on, intent alone to save. 
His guide already stood upon the shore 
And bayed in mournful tones, expression sad 
Of his belief. When come, he straightway led 
The master to a heap of clothes, and when, 
As if to tell more plainly where his friend 
And master disappeared, he cried and moaned 



42 Edalaine. 

Again upon the water's edge, and then 

Plunged in and swam beneath the willow bough, 

And laid a wounded bird upon the shore, 

The worst was told. No human tongue could tell 

The mournful news in more explicit way, 

And naught remained to do but wait for help, 

Or rather hasten to the nearest house 

For ropes and drags. So once again he braved 

The dangers of the old and rotten plank. 

Dame Ann, who hurried toward the town, sent 

young 
And old to join the search, and when she near'd 
The gate that opened to the cottage door, 
Embowered by climbing rose and columbine, 
And stood within the precincts of those grounds, 
Made beautiful by toil of him they sought, 
She felt a hush that moved her more than all 
The anxious doubts that fill her heart before. 



Edalatne. 43 

The hope that naught was wrong seemed then to 

die 
Within her heart. Instead, a dread, a sad 
Foreboding rose to take its place. She gave 
A smothered cry, as she beheld the form 
Half hid in grass, and while the others sought 
The husband drowned, Dame Ann, at home, tried 

hard 
To wake the heart th.it beat for him to life 
And grief, for such was duty. Such are some 
Of life's most strange inexplicable laws. 
Why could she not have slipped quite out of life, 
Unconscious that it held such cruel blows, 
Such bitter griefs? But God had not so willed. 
We needs must meet the griefs, to comprehend 
That life is repetitions of itself, 
In woes that blanch the cheek, and joys that cloy 
The over-giddy heart, both set, perchance, 
As balances to measure out to us 



44- E da lame. 

The proper gauge of moral rectitude. 

She lived, and woke with words of grievous fright, 

That she had swooned by weakness of her will, 

In place of hastening to her husband's aid. 

Unmindful of the pleadings of Dame Ann, 

The tears of infant Edalaine who held 

Her sister's dress, and could not understand 

Denial of caressing words, she sped 

Adown the road that now lay hid in night, 

To meet a sad and silent train that bore 

By torchlight what was late his breathing form. 

These fitful gleams of light ! They seemed to 

glare 
With eyes like demons, midst the gloom of deep, 
Dark night, to mock her grief ! They seemed to 

sear 
The senses of her dizzy brain, and heap 
Her agonies with tortures sharp and keen ! 
The loss of consciousness, but at the thought 



Edalaine. 45 

Of accident had come ; now death was here, 
His labor done, relief came not. Each pang 
Of grief was hers to know and feel, "Twere 

well," 
Some said, " if hearts like hers could break." But 

hearts 
That break are few, and do not, as these words 
Imply, bring peace of death. Less pain there'd be 
On earth if this could be, for living deaths 
Were spared the human heart. One sad, brief 

hour! 
Her happiness a wreck, and life had changed 
For her, from gladsome sun to hellish night ! 
This jailer, gaunt Despair, all pitiless, 
Locked in the tempest of her grief to tear 
Itself against the bars of prison'd speech. 
The night, the lights, the pallid faces, all 
Seem'd strange, and then the hidden Something 

there 



46 Edalaine. 

Upon the rough- formed bier, heaped horror on 

The wan, weird darkness of the summer eve ! 

Another woman would have thrown herself 

Upon the corpse, and waked with cries the night, 

As hoping to arouse the dead, but she 

Seemed paralyzed in all but sense of grief 

And sight. Her eyes two burning balls of fire 

That sought upon the faces of this dark 

And slowly moving throng, some new-born hope 

Glanced fearfully and earnestly around. 

And when the silent, dripping form was laid 

Upon the cottage floor, she gazed at them, 

At it, and clung to friendly hands stretched out 

In deep-felt sympathy, as if at sight 

Thereof some nameless terror of the Thing 

Stark stiff in death had clutched her timid heart. 

And when at last she doubtingly crept near, 

Drew from the face a scarf of silk there thrown, 

Stroked back the hair, and gently wiped away 



Edalatne. 47 

The clinging weeds. Unheard, they moved out- 
side, 
And in the room alone she knelt, her dead 
Her own. A shivering sigh, a half-suppressed 
Dry sob, — no other sound spoke of her grief. 
One arm up-raised the senseless head, and close 
Her trembling lips sought life and love in his, 
Then whispered, " Come, O love, my life is thine! 
Nay, mine and that of our unborn, is thine — 
Drink all from my poor lips, and it shall give 
Thee pulse and living warmth. And once again 
She clung to lips that seemed straight drawn in 

dumb 
Derision, nor sank curve in curve as was 
Their wont, till quickening currents of their hearts 
Burst bounds of two-fold life, to sweep from soul 
To soul in one swift burning tide ; and then 
She gazed in sightless orbs, as if this sharp 
Repulse had stung her heart to newer grief. 



48 Edalaine. 

She slowly laid the head upon the floor, 

Look'd round for sympathy, then thrilled the air 

To swiftly eddying circles with a shriek 

That pierced the gloom of night, and sobbed 

itself 
To sudden silence. Stonily she let 
Them lead her from the room of death, to sit 
In dumbly stricken grief, to slowly join 
And rend apart the tender, supple hands 
Of snowy white, nor conscious of the pain 
To those who watched, beholding grief like this. 
Once came Dame Evelyn, and standing there 
Pressed to her heart the head distraught, then 

passed 
Her soft, magnetic hands along the brow, 
And o'er the agonized uplifting of the eyes, 
Long sought to draw a restful veil. A sob 
Came struggling up to parched lips, and then, 
Like others, died away in shuddering moans. 



Edalaine. 49 

Hot tears coursed down her mother's cheeks and 

fell 
Upon her own, and mother's aching heart 
Plead in the gentle music of her words. 
''Oh, weep, my daughter, tears were made for 

grief. 
I've seen thee weep through tender pity o'er 
A wounded bird, and lesser things than that. 
Give way to this imprisoned grief! You'll break 
My heart with such still agony !" She pressed 
Her mother's hand in silence, but no word 
Came from the motion of her pallid lips, 
And terror for her child began to rend 
The heart of Evelyn, that soon this grief 
Would blot the reason of her mind. All through 
The night, the dead to silence given o'er, 
They spent in ceaseless efforts to undo 
The silence of her grief, but naught availed. 

Soft twilight kissed the dawn and birds awoke, 



50 Edalaine. 

To join their songs with preparations vast 

Then taking place throughout the mighty realm 

Of nature, for the coming of the day. 

These woke the tiny Edalaine, who slept, 

Oblivious of the desolation brought 

Upon her sister's heart. The watch-dog lay 

Beside her bed, and rose with her as if 

To save her from the phantom grief that reign'd 

An uninvited guest within the house. 

The breakfast room was near, 

And Edalaine, with gladsome heart tripped in, 

To find it vacant still. The sunshine fleck'd 

The sanded floor, and crept upon the chair, 

With ample arms now vacant evermore ; 

Slipped down to dance fantastic shapes with shade 

Before the open door, and lingered 'neath 

The vine-clad porch, to kiss and play at hide 

And seek with sporting zephyrs there. Just high 

Enough to open wide the closet door, 



Edalaine. 51 

Blithe Edalaine, her brother's gown of blue 

Drew forth, and laid upon the oaken chair, 

And next dropped soft-lined slippers on the hearth, 

When lo! she found the dog had drawn away 

The robe, and hid it out of sight again. 

Once more the coat was brought, and smoothly 

laid 
Upon the easy chair, but " Gay " was firm. 
The slippers now had been replaced, and then 
He turned to capture coat and drag it back 
Again. This time he placed himself against 
The door on haunches firmly set and strong, 
And Edalaine could scarce decide if best 
To laugh, or scold, or cry, and neither saw 
The pallid face that watched them from the door 
Till suddenly Elizabeth, the gates 
Of grief at last broke down, fell on the neck 
Of this dumb beast who sought to save her pain, 
And wept in heartfelt pity once again, 



52 Edalaine. 

Of pity most forlorn, that felt for self. 

" Oh Gay, oh Gay ! why could you save him not 

For me, you are so wise and strong ? so kind 

And pitiful !" He laid his head against 

Her tear-stained cheek, and kissed, in dog-like 

fashion, 
Hands, and cheek, and brow, while Edalaine, 
In frightened wonder stood to see her tears, 
And gladly ran to hide on mother's breast 
Her fears, as, pale with watches of the night, 
She too had stopped to dry her own sad tears, 
At sight of this pathetic scene. She led the 
Child from out the room, " Fear not, my child, 
The sun shines bright upon the grass, we'll walk 
And talk of things your years have not as yet 
By observation taught. The birds will sing, 
Though sister weeps, and each fulfill a law 
Divine and right." And then the mother sought, 
In words that lent themselves to childish ears, 



Edalaine. 53 

To tell of death the part more beautiful. 
And last explained the endless sleep that bound 
The frame of him who walks among his friends 
Gaily and free and blithe but yesterday. 
" Be ready ever for the last good-night, 
My child, nor ever let a single hour 
Of coldness or dissension stand between 
Yourself and those you love the best, lest one 
Or other drop the while in this deep sleep." 
The last sad rite had been performed, but she 
Who mourned the most, lay tossing on a bed 
Of pain. To consciousness she waked but once, 
And gazed upon a tiny waxen head, 
Whose life was gone ere died upon her lips 
The blessing breathed for it, and then the light 
Was spent. Delirium swayed the restless mind, 
And friends were torn with anxious doubts lest 
death 



54 E da la in e. 

Again returned, should conquer life and prove 
This soul too frail for battling with such griefs. 
Day crowded days to weeks, and weeks to months, 
And leaves took on their autumn tints of brown. 
Fruit fell to earth, and then the leaves dropped 

down 
To bury what man left to turn to dust. 
The birds began to leave their nests and hie 
Themselves to sun-bathed, leafier climes ere woke 
The wife to consciousness of widowhood, 
Which seemed to blot the grief of childlessness. 
The dog, a faithful guard, watched night and day 
Beside the couch, and often Edalaine 
Would sit betwixt his paws to watch with him, 
And wondered o'er and o'er if this wan face 
Was yet in life, or whether sleep — the last 
Deep solemn sleep had claimed the suffering one, 
And, nestled close beside the shaggy dog, 



Edalaine. 55 

Her childish heart poured forth its fear and woe 
In many a simple, earnest prayer to save 
To them her sister's life. 



BOOK II. 

When, in the story of the world's increase, 

Have not the evil passions of its men, 

Like subtle, smouldering fires amid the green 

And towering giants of the forest glades, 

Crept in the nobler virtues to destroy, 

Till souls, the blackened shadows of themselves, 

Desolate remained ? And in what age of man 

Hath not each sin found creeds, whose sophistry 

Baptized belief or act as virtue's self ? 

And that men by nature great have oft belied 

Their gifts of virtue, whence all wisdom springs, 

When inclination warped belief, or wrought 

With reasonings as false as fair, to lead 

[57] 



58 Edalaine. 

A life of whim and mad caprice undreamed 
By purer minds ! Why think our age exempt ? 
Alas ! Mistakes breed everywhere within 
The range of human frailty, like rude weeds. 
And so to those who dwelt within the vale, 
Though not at once, was brought a wondrous 

change. 
Blind man would say an evil power had wrought 
The change in simple envy that a spot 
On earth should boast of peace and harmony. 
But why not say that God, far-seeing, wise, 
Knows best, and that a peaceful life on earth 
Would deaden new resolve and fresh endeavor. 
But whether came the change by will of God 
Or friend, a serpent crept into the vale, 
O'er many thresholds passed to leave behind, 
Its slimy trail. Fair homes were broken up, 
And inmates scattered far and wide, while men 
Became the victims of its deadly charm, 



Edalaine. 59 

And minds in struggling 'twixt conflicting right 
And wrong, and mysteries which confounded 

them, 
Or filled with phantasies absurd, were crazed, 
Were left like vessels tossed at sea, no sun, 
No compass, guide or anchor, midst the storm 
That drove them wide. And yet the cause of this, 
They call by sacred name of Love. I wot 
That there are those will shudder as they read, 
And understand what shame, what grief was 

brought 
Into the vale by sophistries whose name 
E'en now my pen abhors to write. 
And much as in the days of yore temptation came 
To pliant man, in woman's gentle form, 
But here the likeness ends. This later Eve 
Had envied man his rights, and, wond'ring why 
He seemed to claim what was denied to her 
(The chief of these the right to live in sin), 



60 Edalaine. 

She mused, compared, and caught the secret 

thought. 
'Twas dress that made a woman slave. A man 
Was free to stride, to joy in actions. Coils 
Of silky tresses weighted not his brain ; 
The ancient story told of Samson's strength 
Was but a myth, and, earnest in demand 
Of rights usurped by man, she never joy'd 
O'er secrets that enfold man's heart when drawn 
By woman with a single golden hair. 
This daily toil of braiding tresses, too, 
Was quite enough to give the men a start 
By one full hour, and that, in one short year, 
Would make a month of working time, 
In life of every woman born (for oft 
The silly ones were known to dress the hair 
Full twice each day), was nearly fifteen years 
Within allotted life of man ! Ah ! yes, 
'Twas plain, the hair must go, and then, since time 



Edalaine. 61 

Had much increased the vanity of dress, 

So great their waste of hours it ne'er could be 

In decimals compared, and now that minds 

Had lost the simple taste of Adam's Eve, 

And dress, they must, at least no vantage ground 

Should more be left to man, and so the dress 

Must change. To imitate the man ? Oh, no ! 

The dress was hers as much as his, by all 

Good rights, and soon they'd see how smooth the 

wheels 

Of State would move in woman's hands. With this 

Resolve, she sought to cover o'er the curves 

Of lines that marked her beauty over man's, 

Until she half forgot her sex, and thought 

Herself creation's Lord ! Not now content 

With face to win, with grace to charm, with voice 

To allure, she 'gan to strive to couple with 

Her limbs of fawn-like grace man's vigor, then 

i 
To tune the lute strings of her woman's voice 



62 Edalaine. 

To clarion notes, and rather wake the world 
To raging war in crying down its wrongs, 
Than first to tame its passions' flame to use 
More sweet, by sounds that lured to harmony 
The jangling discords of its outraged souls. 
And one of these had wandered to the vale. 
The name they bore of fearless enterprise 
In living out their code, seemed fitting place 
To plant the seed that soon would scatter fruit 
Throughout the world, — and so her sisters thought. 
But pity 'tis to tell, she had not learned 
Her text ; confounded rights and wrongs, and 

mixed 
With them base licenses. Unhappy choice 
Of women earnest in their cause ! She brought 
Upon their work a stain, and ruin marked 
Her course like worm-corroding path that blasts 
The rose. But we anticipate our tale ; — 
She begged to speak, for she had come to bring 



E da lame. 63 

To them a moral freedom. Right to live 
Outside the code that serves to bind our hearts 
To clay that holds no soul. 

" I beg you look," 
She said, " at yonder marriage bond, she dreams 
Of love that brings no care, so pure her heart, 
That life whose aim is solely reaching forth 
For wealth, jars rudely heart strings tuned to high 
And lofty anthems of the soul, yet finds 
Herself beside a mate who soars in thought 
No higher than his farm, his plough, his grain 
And corn! Her heart that yearns for infinite joy 
With kindred souls, by this fell weight here forced 
To grope and mourn the unattainable. 
And here we find another hapless pair. 
To fashion's wheel the wife is bound, and up 
And down the giddy world she's whirled, first here 
Then there, a ceaseless round no soul-life wakes 
Nor genius germ, nor ideal worth. Alone 



64 Edalaine. 

He stands, the problem of progressive worlds 

To solve ; looked on by her, as years do more, 

And more the breach make wide, as but a clod 

Of earth, that knows not how to grace a feast 

Or turn retort in fashion's banter, nor 

To dance a reel when most she wished to show 

Her gown and shake beneath the nose of gossipers 

(For politic she too can be at times) — 

Her matrimonial chains to make them talk 

Of conjugal felicity and her. 

" Arise, my friends ! Here have you buildedyou 

A mimic world ; throw off as well, the chains 

That make you still as worldly here as those 

Who live without, and bow to fashion's code. 

Affinities must guide you here. Divide 

These lives that, tied here side by side, without 

One common thought, one lofty dream of Heaven 

On earth, drag each other down ! Move on, 

Let not your work cease here. Grasp other truths. 



Edalazne. 65 

Let love sit by, a guest, who comes to-day, 

To-morrow gone ; an angel worthy all 

Our best and brightest thoughts, for he gives all, 

And more in like return of purest love ! 

Grieve not, when he be gone, its bitterness 

By sweets is e'er replaced with eyes grown dear 

Through newly wakened sympathies! Grow 

young, 
Not dumb to th' emotions of the heart, and thus, 
You'll find the plant of love blooms o'er and o'er. 
Away with cant of chains that bind ; of ring 
That holds for good or ill ! Can dead hearts beat 
Response to yours? Dull brains give ans'ring 

thoughts ? 
Ah no ! and marriage bonds kill first the one, 
And—" Stop "—and Evelyn Grant, in righteous 

wrath, 
Stood up and faced the woman who had dared 
Invade this realm of peace. " 'Tis plain you mean 



66 Edalaine. 

By love, a word too base to use at large. 

That lust can satisfy a heart like yours 

I will allow. Has mother heart ne'er beat 

To hush in sacred calm your passion's flame ? 

Has love ne'er caused you measure which was best, 

Love dragged a day in lustful pleasures, or 

Th' affections which doth follow it when held 

As something sacred for a life ? Or is it 

That you have so dull an intellect 

That chasteness, and affectionate calm, respect 

Of man, because you are a woman born, 

Ne'er reached your dimmed perceptions. Still 

I say !" 
For here the stranger tried to speak, but paled 
To feel the electric thrill of eyes that looked 
Her down in scathing scorn, as on she sped 
In quick rebuke. " Who taught you first to 

breathe 



Edalaine. 67 

Your infant prayer? Would you have learned 

had not 
It been ordained that those who walk before 
In this advancing life, should aid to wake 
To life and action, mind and heart, and soul ; 
Should strive to gain from those who stand below 
An upward glance, or more ; an upward step? 
All selfishly you seek for kindred souls, 
* Affinities,' in your weak reasoning, 
Content alone to feast while leaving those 
You ought to feed, to starve for moral aid. 
Ask duty, not the whim of passing hour, 
What are most meet for proper wedlock here. 
It is divine, the marriage law, what though 
Mistakes are made, does that still prove the law 
At fault? The wife who dreams the livelong day 
What better balance to her vagaries, 
Than sturdy sense of what you deem so dull ? 
Is sense or judgment, then, beneath in grade, 



68 E da I a i7i e. 

To longings vain, to sophistries of which 
She may herself be all too ignorant ? 
And he, the dreamer that you pity, linked 
To wife who worships fashion and the world, 
Has he not err'd in closing, oyster-like, 
Within himself the pearls of loftier aims ? 
Let him concede to dwell with her within 
The world, join in her pleasures, there to learn 
The broader meanings — Charity at home 
Begins, and give, instead of holding back 
What he considers wealth — and she but dross, 
Till each, and both do borrow light, and lend 
Until they're harmonized to perfect whole. 
And then the little ones. Must they be plunged 
In chaos of these mix'd affections too? 
Ne'er cling to anchors such as sacred name 
Of mother, father, what though parents these, 
'Midst cares too great for poverty to ease, 
They lose, perhaps, sublimity in life. 



Edalatne. 69 

Shall not of life the simple attributes 

Which wealth or learning ne'er can give or take 

The patient word, the tender hand, the smiles, 

The tears, shall these not all suffice to bring, 

While moving onward, all that life to live 

Is worth and make of wedded life the calm 

And steadfast haven of our earthly bliss? 

Who talks of else, hath wrought a curse upon 

Themselves by marriages not made in love, 

But only through some worldly thought ; some 

chance 
Or worse, unholy passion's end. Oh, friends ! 
If, as of old, the serpents crept within 
Our Eden here, at least let each of home 
Conserve an Eden still.'' 

The meeting closed. 
And deeply entered words like these in hearts 
Of most. But some there were who sought excuse 
To free themselves from chains they wore but ill, 



yo Edalaine. 

Who raised contentions till the worst was done. 
Midst other homes on which the evil fell, 
Was that of gentle Evelyn, who saw 
And wept to see the ruin that was wrought, 
For stone by stone the edifice man's hand 
Had raised, the social ramparts which on earth 
Were meant to guard the tender growth of good, 
Now crumbled to the dust. What man had spent 
Of worldly wealth to aid in this good work, 
Was sacrificed, or else they needs must cling 
To codes in which they could no more believe. 
And yet she held with steadfast soul to truths 
She felt must live for aye. But Andrew smiled, 
And sighed, and then he smiled again. He dwelt 
Where poets dwell ; dreamed dreams, nor lent his 

pow'rs 
To uses that the practical might win, 
When dreams with gauzy fabric, served alone 
To dim the clearness of the inward sight 



Edalaine. 7 r 

In sense and judgment, when a need like this 

Arose for firm and steadfast will. He vowed 

Or rather hinted that he lived for aims 

Above the toil and sweat of brow which brought 

But pelf, wrote letters filled with verse, and vain 

Imaginings to lady friends, and then 

Felt hurt when answer never came to them. 

He hinted in them, life was all a sad 

Mistake to spirits that, like him, ne'er found 

A kindred soul. None understood his heart, 

Nor realized how fiercely burned the fire 

Upon the sacred altar of his long 

Unsatisfied desire to worship here, 

Alone the true and beautiful. 

His wife 
Was strong, made brave by mother love. Scarce 

thought 
Of strifes begun with worldly wealth all gone. 
With her such love gave pow'r, to him it was . 



72 Edalaine, 

But dreaming, and to leave the haven where 
He hoped to live and die, meant life begun 
Anew, with all the cares of age, and lost 
The hopes of youth. She lived anew her youth 
In each young life God gave her right to call 
Her own. He loved them all, but only from 
Their youth had borrowed timorous fears, he 

thought, 
And argued o'er and o'er the case, and thus 
With others in the vale, in argument fond, 
Drank ever deeper draughts to wake and warm 
The blood to heat of the debate, talked on, 
Nor thought of work that must be done to save 
These mouths from need of food. 

Ere long it came 
To pass that it was whispered through the town 
That Andrew's head was turned. At least 'twas 

true 
That once or twice some fiery drink had ruled 



Edalaine. 73 

His brain, and scenes arose that made him seem, 
If not insane, a man not quite himself. 
He walked about the town in strange attire ; 
Or strayed away for days. 

There sometimes came 
To Evelyn, in absences like these, 
A stranger, from some neighboring town and bent 
On curious errand he, perhaps to claim 
A bureau which her husband sold. " Would she 
Be kind enough to point him out the one ?" 
At other times it was a chair, or bed, 
And Evelyn with dignity complied, 
Nor chose to show to stranger's eyes, she had 
Not known, and countenanced their sale. At last 
One called to see the clock, a farmer he, 
And broad in English dialect. The clock ! 
'Twas all that spoke to her of girlhood's home. 
Her father's gentle voice had mingled with 
Its chimes ! Each hour it tolled brought memory 



74 Edalaine. 

Of lessons learned from him ! 

" The rare old clock ? 
The Scots had aye an love for them, but bless 
The'oman, do ye weep? Its awkwarder 
Nor what I thought!" And helplessly he scraped 
His rough, gray chin, 

" A bit of gold is worth 
The clock, but blamed if I can buy the tears. 
I thought the feyther needed gold, but 'ems 
As sell the meyther's heart, 'ull come to grief!" 
u Nae, nae, ye munna mind," and Evelyn, 
Her pain too great to mark her words, spoke too 
In dialect her father used, and then, 
Remembering herself, she sadly smiled, 
To see the children marvel at her Scotch. 
''The clock, I'm sure, is safe with you, and when 
My babe," — and here the tears choked back the 

words 
An instant, while she drew her Edalaine 



Edalaine. 75 

Against her heart — " When Edalaine is grown, 

I'm sure you'll sell it back to her, for o'er 

Its face has chased the sunshine and the cloud 

Of all my life. Its only silences 

Have marked the greatest changes of my days. 

Three months to sail from Scotland, was the first. 

Eleven years I numbered then, and now" — 

She spoke as if the others were forgot, — 

" At twenty-two my father gone, and I 

A bride, it paused but half an hour when moved 

To humbler home than e'er it yet had known. 

At thirty-three, for Andrew loved to roam, 

We left Canadian soil, and I, my kin. 

At forty-four we joined the Fourierites, 

And now" — and when she looked at him he marked 

The wanness of her face, as if some grief 

Had been revealed to her in cruel haste, 

Or waked to conscious knowledge of itself, — 

" I feel 'twere best, that of my life, the clock 



j6 Edalaine. 

Should never know the rest, lest he, who loved 
My youth and called me daughter, yet can look 
Upon its face, and still thereon might read 
More truth than wittingly I'd have him know. 
'Tis folly, is it not ? But more through that 
Rude clock my father speaks to me, than aught 
On earth, and, absent from my sight, I'd feel 
My ills can better hide themselves from him." 

The man 
Had busied himself in gazing at the clock, 
Had oft his cotton handkerchief drawn forth 
Or taken snuff to hide his tenderness 
Of heart. And now he beckoned Edalaine. 
" And so it be,yere Scotch, my gell," he said, 
" That's maist as good as bein' Lancashire. 
An' when yer grow'd we'll see what says the clock 
Of gells as minds their meythers, an' their books." 
But Edalaine crept back to touch the face, 
All wet with falling tears, and whispered her 



Edalaine. 77 

In one word : " Mother," all the sympathy 

And love an aching heart could wish. The dame, 

As if aroused to dearth of duty done 

In hospitality, beneath her roof, 

Arose and briskly set about the task 

Of making tea. 

" I beg your pardon, sir, 
My lack of courtesy, you'll take with us 
A cup of tea ? You see of late our work 
Hath fallen slack. The Fourierites could not 
Break faith without its shadows falling on 
Us all, and since we ceased to break our bread 
In peace around one board, we've lost, I think, 
Our skill, perhaps 'twas wrong to so withdraw, 
But since mine ears were shocked with converse 

filled 
With poisonous intent to minds, I felt, 
With all my little ones, 'twere best contend 



yS Edalaine. 

With bitter want ; face sickness, nay, meet death, 
Than taint their minds with foul disorders which 
Now brood within our midst." 

" Well said,'' good dame; 
If aught goes wrong, yer welcome to my best, 
And there's th' wife o' mine 'ull say the same, 
Send me the gells ye need the least, and so 
It pleases ye, they'll allays hev a home." 
And so the clock was borne away, to leave 
With Evelyn a greater grief than she 
Had shown, for still, in painful silence, mused 
She o'er the strange demeanor of her once 
" Guid mon." 

Sometimes, as mother with her child, 
She strove to reason with and bring him back 
To calm and steadfast purposes of toil. 
" There's naught in such 

A life. I've done thy way 



Edalaine. 79 

Now leave me to my own." " But, father, think !" 
" Aye, aye, 'tis think, 'twere better that I ne'er 
Did think!" And while the mother hid her tears, 
And yielded task she felt a useless one, 
He'd next, perhaps, arouse her latent hopes. 
But hopes thus waked would languish when his 

work 
By freaks of fancy moved. 'Twas first to plant 
A cherry tree beside the door, and joy 
Awoke as cheerful converse then they held, 
While he in earnest work with spade delved on, 
And she, with needles clicked the stitches off 
And on ; but next her heart sank hopelessly. 
He left the work of usefulness to roam 
To distant spot, and paused, perhaps, beside 
The brook, to plant what marked in after years 
The strange caprice of wand'ring mind. " They'll 

stand, 
Babe Edalaine, to speak to thee of thy 



80 Edalaine, 

Poor father's deeds in fairer language than 
The world will do," 

And Evelyn would say 
Unto her flock: 

" Respect thy sire, he soon 
Will be himself, his losses make him seem 
Unmindful of thy wants. Take heart and do 
Thy duties each." But most she strove to make 
His acts appear both natural and right, 
And they, the children, seldom saw in him 
A strangeness, sole, that oft he quitted work, 
Nor came to mark the hour of bright-eyed noon, 
Or sun's decline, as once he never failed 
To do, but lingered late, or never came 
At all, though mother ever found excuse. 

* * * * # «* • 

'Midst all the agitations of belief 
Within the vale, and changes brought by them, 
Death came again to gather home a soul, 



Edalaine. 8 1 

And left Dean Brent to mourn his gentle wife. 
He bowed before the grief as strong men do, 
And hid his wound afar from careless eye 
Of men. It seemed but yesterday since they 
Were wed, but years could ne'er bring back as 

much 
Of quiet joy as marked these peaceful months. 
And yet he sought with philosophic mind, 
To gain some little good where most the lash 
Of sorrow touched to quick the quivering soul. 
Elizabeth, such comfort could not find. 
She walked the earth as in a misty world 
Of blighted joys, and duties which she took 
Upon herself with earnest wish, she did 
In slow, lethargic wise, as if her soul 
Refused to lighten irksome labor with 
Impulsiveness. The springing step, the smile 
That mocked the sun, the glow of sun-lit eyes, 
Were gone. Her only sign of interest 



82 Edalaine, 

In life was shown at times to Edalaine, 

Who, child as yet, still read the sadness writ 

Upon her sister's face, and crept full oft 

Within her arms to nestle there, and lend 

A silent sympathy more deep than words. 

Dean Brent amidst the sorrows of his own 

Sad hearth, who saw his mother fading fast, 

Found time to prove to Mistress Evelyn 

The worthiness and high esteem he felt 

For her, and tried some goodly seed to sow 

In mind of Andrew. Sought in outward things 

To raise some interest, as ballast this, 

To vagaries he feared e'en more than yet 

Confessed to idle gossipers. He urged 

Some measures to retrieve his fortune lost, 

And staked his own in urging this, to feel 

At last some hope that all was well. Then signs 

Of strange and fitful vagaries again 



Edalaine. 83 

Appeared, and these more startling proved to 

them, 
When late one night, returned from fierce debate, 
He sprang with dreadful oaths upon his child 
Elizabeth. Her blood congealed in veins 
Of ice, she could not scream, but given power 
To move, she fled across the Common, 'neath 
The stars, without a thought of whence her aid 
Might come, and saw alone athwart the night, 
The gleam of hungry steel, and felt herself 
The object of a maniac's hate, and he 
Her sire ! 

At last a glimmering ray of light 
Fell straggling down a narrow wooden stair. 
She heard the grate of heels in hot pursuit, 
The pant of rage, and as she touched the stair, 
The muttered oath seemed close, so close she felt 
Hot breath upon her cheek, and shrank against 
The shaded side ! 



84 Edalaine. 

Come hope ! Come help ! Alas, 
A hand is on her hair, the knife is raised, 
And roused to superhuman effort, shrieked, 
" Help ! help !" When falling at the feet of two 
Strong neighbor lads. An instant more, the knife 
Is wrenched away, and Andrew strongly bound. 
But all that night and many more, when safe 
'Twixt prison walls in lieu of hospital, 
He raved with incoherent phrase, and when 
Some questioned why this awful deed he sought 
To do, he answered proudly, while he showed 
Upon the wall, a hand which grasped the world, 
And which with hasty stroke his hand had drawn, 
" Hush, am I not the great I Am ? Why ask 
Me then of deeds performed, for as I gave 
I take, so question none !" 

For months he lay 
In prison chains, nor wife nor faithful friends 
Had means or pow'r to save him this. His mind 



Edalaine. 85 

Took flight in fancies that when spoken, seemed 
The words of one whose wisdom was above 
The ken of common men, and not of one 
Whose mind had lost its equipoise. 

At last 
Set free he walked abroad to meet the sun 
Of spring. The past forgotten, sane he seemed, 
And kindlier man in all the land could not 
Be found. Long hours he spent in solitude ; 
All nature's creatures followed him, nor turned 
Away unnoticed. Shy at first, the boys 
Found he could make their whistles best, could fly 
A kite that failed all other hands, till last 
Not few but all the children made of him 
Their confidant, and spent full many a day 
In climbing through the glens, in weaving flowers 
For wreaths, while he wove words in fairy tales, 
For Andrew had a poet's heart, and they 
Had each a heart of youth, and youth to those 



86 Edalaiue. 

Who understand is much akin to realm 

Of poet, save in giving speech to joys. 

Two hearts there were that could not thus forget 

The past, and both in secret bore a heart 

Of fear unknown to each and to the world : 

Elizabeth and Edalaine. And oft 

Elizabeth awoke at night with brow 

All moist with fright in dreaming o'er the grief 

And horror of that awful night. The child, 

By nature born discreet, had never told 

That she had waked to see the self-same night, 

Her own life menaced by a chair which fell 

Upon her mother's form, who strove to save 

Her sleeping child ; nor how she silent lay 

In trembling fear, to hear her mother's voice 

(The father fled) thank God in grateful prayer 

That he had saved her child from certain death. 

And now that all was past, and by the world 

Forgot, the terror lived within their hearts, 



E da I aine. 8 J 

Increased the more by secret watchfulness. 
Yet he was happy, seemingly, nor felt 
Estrangement in these gentle hearts. His life 
Was spent in sunny idleness, the lads 
Aye glad to find a nobler head to lead 
The van in rambling through the summer woods, 
With acclamations, hailed a sunny day 
Proposed by Andrew for another jaunt. 

One day, when resting 'neath the forest trees, 
With twenty merry lads about his knee, 
He told in rambling rhyme, the following tale 
Of ocean shell : 

I'm shaggy and brown and rough to see, 

As imbedded I lie in the mere ; 
The maids would scoff in merry glee, 

If you named me as their peer. 

I'm shaggy and brown and rough, they say, 
In my weather-stained house so round, 



88 Edalaine. 

But its hall within's a shimmering way, 
That thrills with an echoing sound. 

My pearl walls sing songs they cannot hear, 
Gleam with lights they never can see, 

For once the ocean in secret here, 
Gave the song of his heart to me. 

We sing of his joys the livelong day, 
And sometimes we whisper a sigh ; 

I'm joined to my wall like moss to clay, 
And we are one, my wall and I. 

Yet sometimes, alas, for flesh am I, 
I dream of and long for fleshy kind ; 

I would they might feel these songs pulse high- 
Through the heart, the brain and mind. 

I dream, too, oft of a song I hear, 

From a mermaid sad, though sweet and fair, 
Who grievously tried, to sigh, sits near, 

While she sings away her care. 



Edalaine. 89 

Only a bubble of ocean am I, 
Alone, alone, 

Alone to moan, 

Alone to die. 

My true love went, but he comes not yet, 
Alone, alone, 

To make sad moan, 

With eyelids wet. 

I comb my hair beneath the briny deep, 
Alone, alone, 

To make my moan, 

Alone to weep ! 

He comes no more, and he sends no word, 
Alone, alone ! 

Alone to die, 

My prayer unheard. 

Then Andrew told 
A tale of storms that rose in foamy rage, 



90 Edalaine. 

When sea gods 'twixt themselves made war for 

right 
To rule beneath the sea. Then ocean stern, 
With visage dark, the chamberlain of his court 
Bade go, and herald out the powers of all 
The Storm King's mighty court, his legions vast, 
To work the bane of those who had disgraced 
The sea. " What though," he said, " I banish all 
From out this wide domain, I'll not submit 
That we, like human beasts, get right by might. 
Go forth and make it known to them, that ne'er 
Again, 'neath surf or wave, shall they as nymphs 
Disport, but grovel 'neath the form of man, 
Their cares all know, their weal, their woe, and 

make 
Of life one constant wage of war for pelf, 
Or fame, a struggle fierce, as it shall be 
Unending, where I shall not reign their King." 
The Storm King came, the storm arose to drive 



Edalaine, 91 

Them from the sea, and sinless ones like those 
Of guilt, were cast upon the barren shore. 
The shell whose lonely life we know, like these 
Was cast on burning rocks, and wak'd but half 
To conscious things, first found himself alone, 
And then — but let him tell the tale himself. 
" I woke convulsed with pain. A burning heat 
Consumed my frame, and thirst my tongue clave 

fast ; 
A fiery light ne'er seen before, my brain 
And senses scorched. No sheltering home above 
My head, for half and half my hall was cleft, 
And I, on sands that stretched afar, lay fixed 
Betwixt two rocks. I moaning raised my eyes, 
When lo ! the light grew soft and dim with tints 
Of ocean green. Above, long streamed fine threads 
Of silky hair, that dripped like tinkling rain, 
Refreshing showers upon my face, as from 
The depths it came, and lo, my mermaid queen, 



92 Edalainc. 

Whose song I long had heard, with tender looks 

Bent o'er my head, to know if I still lived. 

" Who knows," she murmured, sweetly sad, " might 

not 
This be my love, perchance these troublous times 
Changed quite to form and shape like this?" and 

sought 
To give me aid. When all at once, the light, 
(I heard them call it sun) with sudden sweep 
Was hid. Deep night it was, and then 'twas day, 
But weird and frightful day, that scarce had 

come, 
When night more deep, more dense and weird 

returned. 
Reverberations swift of thunders vast, 
Had deafened all the land, when I uprose, 
To feel some new-born form had compassed me. 
" The curse, the curse !" the mermaid cried, and 

reached 



Edalaine. 93 

Her arms to meet my own encircling ones. 

The curse it was, but joy to me. One form 

Were we, of stature just, a man and maid 

Become ! My heart beat high, I thought not lost 

My peace beneath the sea, but linked with her, 

What curse would I not dare to live beneath ! 

She called me " Love," and I, who loved in truth, 

Yet let her dream that I indeed was he 

She mourned beneath the sea in mournful song. 

The fearful storm that gave us birth, passed by, 

And nature, who convulsively brought change, 

Once more returned to calm. Not so my heart. 

It beat the passion music of my soul, 

Forever tuned to strike harmonious chords 

In unison with hers. Harmonious 

They were, for o'er and o'er we sounded still 

The rhythm of our love's soft cadences. 

Soft, sad, loud, long, nor ever dreamed to know 

A weariness of them! 



94 Edalaine. 

Her mermaid life 
Had been an idle, careless one, nor bird, 
Nor bee upon the wing, so free as she ! 
But now she toiled, and oft I wondering sat 
To see the busy hands at household task. 
In time was added unto us a child, 
Nay, two and three, and mother-heart uprose 
In her, and I was left apart, as one 
Less dear, or so in jealous mood I thought. 
Then friends were made. They came beguil'd by 

grace 
Of my fair wife. And more and more each day, 
As led by jealous fears and pride, I sought 
To hide from her my heart, I sank into 
Myself. I mourned again my ocean life. 
For harmonies that first bewitched this life 
As man, in jangling discords lay. And thus 
Again I turned to still the venom'd sting 
That ate my heart, to dwell on sounds till now 



Edalaine. 95 

Almost forgot, through charm of blissful love. 

To hymning of my shell I turned, but this 

Tuned not so full. Its vibratory round, 

Alas, rent quite in twain, rang not to me 

With even beat, and so led me astray. 

When sometimes I, half pitiful for those 

That heard it not, th' interpretation sought 

Full oft to make their understanding meet. 

" He's mad," they said, " with this his broken 

song, 
Heed not," to wife, and she ofttimes would weep. 
Then I'd give o'er and dream alone, yet knew 
She watched me closely, reading random words 
As fancy wrought upon, and heeded not. 
To see and feel this, day by day, like foul 
Suspicion's sting, wrought poison in each nerve, 
Till, madden'd, often to my heart I cried : 
" 'Tis worse than death, my life indeed is cursed." 
Sometimes I turned in anger on my young, 



96 Edalaine. 

As they who brought me ill. Sometimes on her 
I loved above all life, or future day. 
And once, alas, that I should live to tell 
The shameful trie," — 

Just here, from far to East, 
A bell pealed forth the noon-day hour with loud 
And merry chime, that reached e'en to the wood 
Where Andrew sat, 'midst listening lads, his tale 
Full long to tell. 

" Enough, enough !" he cried, 
" The rest will wait our lunch, so bring it forth 
And we will feast, while he our hero mourns 
Another hour his wrongs, and then we '11 leave 
These wreaths aloft, a temple raised for him, 
To serve as memory of his doom ; a day 
To live, a day to die, an emblem fit 
Of joys." 

And no mean lunch 'neath oaken tree 



Edalaine. 97 

Was spread upon the ground. Eggs, opened 

through 
Their orange hearts, on couch of lettuce crisp 
Nor touched as yet by wine made sharp by aid 
Of heat and air, and Andrew, as he turned 
It out : 

" We often say of one : he sour'd, 
Look, boys, a lesson learn, that all in life 
Has use, and so with man, the strong keen edge 
Of life's wine, turned by adverse winds or heat 
Of burning fires, to vinegar, so called ; 
Has much of use, as when his life ran wine 
A ruddy stream. Remember, then, for this 
I think you all can understand, to seek 
The difference 'twixt a wine that's simply sour'd, 
And one that's worked itself full clear like this. 
In man, whose nature sour'd would still have use, 
You'll find the difference is, to stand above 
The dregs, Despair, with Courage fix'd on brow 



98 Edalaine. 

And heart ; to mingle with the pure and good, 
Who lend sweet grace of Heaven." 

Thus Andrew talked 
At moments, more to self than them, and still 
Prepared the meal ; cut down with even stroke 
The bread of snowy, crumbly textur'd form ; 
A million bubbles kneaded down, then set 
To rise again in finer texture still, 
And then, by heat caught fast and welded thus, 
In snowy piles with oaken tinted frame 
Of bubbles deftly brown'd. 

As Andrew from 
The baskets laid, of chickens, pies, of fruits 
Full store, the elder boys a fire of pine 
Beneath the kettle made, for even this 
Was not forgot to make their meal a feast. 
And fumes of coffee soon arose, a King 
Could scarce withstand had he recorded vows 
To keep the day a solemn fast. 



Edalaine. 99 

A new 
Freak this, of their old friend to bring a lunch 
With them, and so, the viands spread around, 
A glorious feast they make, as gladsome lads 
And merry bent as ever plunged in wood. 
The eating done, he sent them forth in quest 
Of ferns, and buds, and flowers, and all the wealth 
Of growing grace, " while I the while will take," 
He said, " a noon-day nap to mend my wits. 
And when I wake I'll make resound like this, 
The woods ;'' and straightway with his hands up- 
raised, 
A mocking blast of hunting horn with skill 
The echoes of the wood awoke. 

So off 
They troop with merry laugh, with shout and 

song, 
To leave him there alone. " How still the woods. 



ioo Edalaine, 

Their voices gone ! The leaves themselves droop 

one 
By one, the bird has ceased his song! Alone ! 
So like my life, alone to live, alone 
In silence ever ! Hearts I call mine own 
Wake not the silence of my soul by their 
Responsive thrills. Unknown to them I am 
But mad ! Why seek the error to dispel ? 
I'm mad, aye mad ! 'Twere better then to be 
Insane, than such blind fools as they." And so 
He mused as swinging through the boughs he wove 
In graceful fashion, wreaths the boys had made, 
Till o'er him swung a fairy bower well worth 
A wood nymph queen. 

He threw himself upon 
The sward which rose into a mound, half closed 
His eyes, or upward glanced with slanting lids, 
To rest the flight of sight amidst the chains 
Of trembling flowers. Full long he gazed, for they 



Edalaine. 101 

Were fair, of every hue, and shape, till soon 
They seemed to bend toward him, to nod and then 
To smile. Their leaves seem'd wings that gently 

swung 
To rhythm of their song. Their stems took shape 
Of fairy feet that twinkled in the sun. 
And all at once a thousand lips to words 
Like these broke forth in sounds of ecstacy : 

Come up, come up, 

Oh, world-worn soul, 

For we are queens of the air. 

Come up, come up, 

And be our king, 

Thou art great and we are fair 

Hither, come hither, 
We'll bear thee up, 
To thy soul we are akin. 
Hither, come hither, 



102 Edalaine, 

To be our king, 

For the great and fair are twin. 

The sun peeped down to touch the sward where 

lay 
With misty eyes, the stalwart frame of him 
That heard the song. A handsome form, a head 
Of noble shape, with rich brown hair that clung 
In rings close link'd. A shapely hand he raised 
In sport to shake negation, then in words : 
"Ah no, my friends ! 'Tis true I wove my life 
In web of fairy texture, told my griefs 
To ease my heart, while telling tales to please 
The lads, but then, no credence give to you 
That woo me hither, tho' I oft would flee 
The weary ills, the lingering grief that life 
Doth prove to me." And they with song chimed in : 

Hither, come hither, 
You'll learn our worth, 



Edalaine. 103 

Sole when we dwell together. 

Hither, come hither, 

We're one with thee, 

We'll hold thee our king forever! 

And Andrew started, drew his hand across 

His eyes, as if to brush away a sight 

He could not full believe, to prove himself 

In dreams. But still the voices rose and fell 

In treble shrill, or sank to whisperings. 

"I dream," and then he struck his hand against 

A root, to prove himself awake, and drops 

Of blood oozed through the tender skin, and stood 

Like crimson-coated sentinels, that warn 

Life's foes 'gainst rude or hasty entrance through 

The portals of his palace. Then he rose 

And gazed with wilder eyes. The drops had turned 

To millions, and they seemed to bear the light 

Of scorching mid-day sun ! Again he struck 

The root, and shrilly laughed to feel the pain. 



104 Edalaine. 

u Sting me, demons, sting me, one and all, 
I'll conquer yet." And then a sudden pause, 
As if a thought had stayed his hand. " My God ! 
Is't madness?" Then he muttered, " Ho ho, I'm 

mad! 
I'm mad, am I ? We'll see, we'll see !" and lashed 
To fury by accusing, unseen foe, 
He seized a sapling, tore it from its roots, 
And then another, and a third, until 
His lacerated hands left witnesses 
Of tortured flesh upon each tree. 

At last, 
His fury spent, he sank upon the knoll: 
" I'll conquer them, the demons, see !" and held 
Aloft the saplings, stripped of bud and leaf. 
The flowers bent down their graceful heads ; the 

breeze 
Sighed softly through the trees; a bird came nigh 
Then fluttered through the bower above his head, 



Edalaine. 105 

And panting, bleeding, passion-pale he lay 
And turned his restless eyes to flowers he had 
Addressed. Again they nodded in his sight, 
And once again their voices caught his ear : 

Hither, come hither, 

Nor mock despair, 

For we wait to crown thee king. 

Hither, come hither, 

And sport with us, 

Oh, trust thy weight to our wing. 

Come up, come up, 

Oh, world-tossed soul, 

And sport with us in the air. 

Come up, come up, 

Oh, world- wise king, 

Thou art great and we are fair. 

The pallor deepened on his brow, his eyes 



106 Edalaine. 

Grew sombre as he listened to the words, 
And now forgetting still to answer them, 
He saw them nearer, nearer come, till they 
Had bent so low, their wings caressed his face. 
Their breath bedewed his brow, and still he gazed 
With, eyes dilated in their disk of blue, 
Till arms of fairy forms, of endless hues 
Outstretched encircled him. Then all was dark 

Deep in the woods the boys had met to fight 
A mimic tournament, and crowned with flowers 
The victor lad ; when through the woods some 

said • 

They heard friend Andrew call with thrilling sound 
Of horn. Some said it was the owl's hoarse cry, 
In frightened daylight dream. At last, with one 
Accord they turned to seek the spot they left 
At zenith sun, to weight themselves with flowers. 
They spied from far the bower raised, and ran 
With speedy steps to cast their sweets of fern 



Edalaine. 107 

And buds before the temple raised to love. 

The first to reach the odorous arch, a shriek 

Sent up to Heaven, then turned with wild, white 

face, 
To hide his sight in brother's breast, and shake 
With fear. Another came, then fled tow'rd home, 
Nor stayed to know the worst. The next that 

gazed, 
Fell on the grass, while others came to look, 
Transfixed with fear. Some huddled silently 
Around, or whispered through white lips : " He's 

dead!" 
All dropped the flowers beneath the form that 

hung 
By ropes of blossoms, till ne'er conscious what 
They did, his feet were buried deep in them. 
Then, gathering sense of what they shuddering 

viewed 
Like frightened deer, when startled at they know 



108 Edalaine. 

Not what, they sped tow'rd town, nor scarce could 

voice 
For fright, fatigue, and tears, the tale which told 
The horror which had crown'd the festal day ! 
Enshrined with fragrant flowers he helped entwine 
The dead there lay ! Deep shadow fell to 

shroud 
In pitying darkness purple hues that marked 
A fate as cruel as a felon's death ! 
His latest born, sweet Edalaine, first taught 
Of death by grief it brought a sister's heart, 
Now learned of death self-wrought, and longed to 

know 
What suicidal death could mean. First longed 
With fear, and then with fever'd wish to gaze 
Upon the dead. None knew, when crept alone, 
Awe-stricken to the silent room, the child, 
To stand till childish currents of the heart 
Were frozen in their course, by whispered words 



Edalaine. 109 

She heard from watchers there. 

"A pity 'tis, 
That Edalaine, the babe, was ever born ! 
For surely she must bear within her veins 
The fatal legacy that wrecks the mind, 
And soon or late must wake a maniac. " 
" You think that Edalaine is born to fate 
So dire ?" " Aye, think I so of Edalaine, 
Or that of children she may bear." 

The child, 
No longer child, with white, set face, went out, 
And later, asked a neighbor girl to tell 
Her what could mean a maniac. The girl 
A moment paused, then told the worst she knew, 
Told all the word implied, and cited acts 
That Edalaine failed not to recognize 
As those of her own sire. And yet she seem'd 
Unconscious of the likeness drawn, nor spoke 
Nor questioned of the girl more than she gave 



no Edalaine. 

In voluntary clearance of the first 
Demand. And later, listening to the sound, 
As fell the earth into his grave, she gazed, 
And whispered to herself without a tear : 
44 And must I die a maniac ?" 



BOOK III. 

The ling'ring summer passed and like the grace 

Lent tree and flowers, so brought to Edalaine 

A subtle charm of face and form quite new, 

And if one felt her smiles were rarer grown, 

And that a touch of sadness lingered there, 

She was no less a winning maid that crept, 

Before one knew, deep in the hearts of all. 

'Midst simple country folk and village ways, 

Beloved by all, sweet Edalaine lived much 

Within herself, amidst the farmer's maids 

Seemed nothing more than they, except to win 

The more of love, and yet, unknown to them 

And to herself, a spirit emanant 

[ml 



112 Edalaine. 

About her, seemed to breathe an atmosphere 

Peculiar to herself, now gay, now sad, 

And here existence took upon itself, 

An ideal beauty all its own, — the trees, 

The sunshine, birds and flow'rs, breathed subtle 

truths, 
In language eloquent — they filled her soul 
With melodies that sung themselves within 
Her heart, in cadences of youthful joy. 
From sun-dipped clouds she gathered quiet peace. 
The lark woke action crowned with hope and joy, 
The dew-kissed daisies, trembling at her feet, 
Taught bright humility and cheerfulness, 
When patience tried. 

Ah, who that has not lived 
Up-borne by poets' dreams, who has not seen 
In rock and fern, the air itself, the signs 
Of beauty there, knows not of earth one half 
Its worth, nor tastes of Heaven its joy ! 

The flock 



Edalaine, 113 

Of Evelyn, of which she was the last, 

Had been divided, two had gone to homes 

Provided them by loving hearts and hands — 

Though over-young to wed, good Evelyn 

Had given o'er to pleadings which, at least, 

Held better reasoning than she could find 

To make delay. Their choice had not been ill. 

Two others found a sheltering home with him 

Who first foresaw the coming cloud and bade 

Dame Evelyn relie on him. His wife 

Was thrifty, wise and provident, and taught 

Them lessons which they treasured for a life. 

And one had gone to teach a village school. 

But Edalaine remained, so now their home 

Was broken up, Elizabeth had brought 

Them home to chase from off her heart the shades 

Of memory. Well medicined her heart 

From earlier wounds, in minist'ring to those 

She loved and with them bearing living grief. 



1 14 Edalaine. 

One day, when years had wrapped about her past 

Its pitying mantle, like the green of moss 

That hides upon a lofty tree the wound 

A cruel woodman's axe, or quivering flash 

Of lightning which, not near enough to blast 

Has cut away some growing limb, one came 

Who loved her as a sister ere they each 

Had learned the meaning sorrow bears, and begg'd 

In noble phrase she'd lay aside her grief, 

And wake to earnest love he offered her, 

Dean Brent had learned to prize her, with a love 

Not born in haste and sued for its return. 

She paled in quick dismay in answ'ring him, 

She had not dreamed that he could think of her 

In such a way. 'Twas wrong perhaps, she loved 

Him more than she had dreamed, she owned, but 

too 
She saw her mother fading day by day, 
The toil and care, the grief and pain had done 



E da lain e. 115 

Their work. " Too soon, alas, we'll mourn her loss, 
And then, I still must live for Edalaine. 
I feel within myself, life holds for her 
A work outside the routine of the lives 
We all have led, and I would be her shield 
And spare her useless struggles she would meet." 
" But think you, then, without the ills, one learns 
So well their power, their breadth of intellect?" 
" Tis like, some minds do not, but one so keen 
To feel the ills, so quick to read the hearts 
Of men, can rise to highest plains of thoughts. 
Can wisdom gain — of life can know its best 
And worst, while seeing more and living less 
Of pain." 

" And so you think it wise to spare 
Your sister griefs, and shield from her of life 
Its tragedies? — " 

" Ah me, I think her life 
Was born a tragedy, and I foresee 



n6 Edalazne. 

Alone in occupation sure escape 

From conscious knowledge on her part of this." 

" But why, Elizabeth, could we not wed, 

Could you not trust to me a tithe of this, 

Your self-imposed task?" " Nay, nay, good friend, 

You do not understand. Your own desires 

Impel you toward a higher work and aim 

Than here you'll find ; how then can I be yours 

And follow you without neglecting them ? 

" I'll stay, Elizabeth ; the sacrifice 
Would still be small !" 

" And trammel intellect 
To gain a wife ? Nay, nay, my friend, be wise ; 
The aspirations crushed for lesser joys 
Undo the higher meanings of our lives ; 
Such wish, such love, is beautiful as true, 
But once we find within ourselves some way 
To lofty thoughts or deeds — first do our best ; 
Then comes — if such our fortune's kind decree — 



Edalaine. ny 

Some recompense in homely joys of life." 

" Elizabeth, you shame my weaker heart 
With lofty reasoning!" — but still he sought 
In phrase of deep impassioned love to gain 
Some hope of hither-coming days of joy. 
" I pray you cease, dear friend," she said at last ; 
M Divided hearts can do no perfect work. 
Inevitable choice be ours. The sting 
Of severance will afford a better spur 
Than idle wishes to complete the task 
That may demand our lifetime." 

So it was 
That he with aching heart had ceased his suit, 
And now had toiled three years in foreign lands. 
And Edalaine dreamed not of sacrifice 
So nobly made in her behalf. Her mind 
Engrossed in study, days were all too short ; 
And when, escaped from school, what. dreams were 
hers! 



1 1 8 Edalaine, 

Not those of other girls, but hopeful dreams 

Of future usefulness, a life outside 

Herself; and so she seemed to live all joys ; 

The joys of love and innocent delights, 

Of youth, and girlhood, seemed to her but gifts 

That soon must pass from out her life ; nor yet 

Was this a painful thought. 

" My days," she said, 
"Shall be so filled with care for others that, 
I scarce shall know my own has griefs or need 
Of sympathy." She never dreamed that years 
Might bring her happiness untold ; too deep, 
The shade of others' sorrows marked her heart ; 
She only sought to find some solace 'midst 
A life of heavy cares. Her cheerful heart 
Made no demands, and caught each passing ray 
Of pleasure as a blessing sent. 

At last 
The routine of her school-days reached their end, 



Edalaine, ug 

The days in which to choose a fitting path 

In life, or failing, live to toil and drudge. 

Not only now had thoughts of this grave choice 

Waked in her mind, for she had dreamed betwixt 

The pages of her books, and each new dream 

Took shape again in one that lured her most. 

Long time had lived the thought, when late one 

night, 
As seated near Elizabeth, she spoke. 
For many moments both had watch'd the shapes 
Of ruddy embers glow and fall, and each 
Had added fancies to their shape. 

" I fear," 
The younger said, " the ambition that I prize- 
Above all others, dear, will disappoint 
Your heart ; for surely rumors of the world, 
Which, prejudie'd, oft reach us here, have sown 
Their seed within your mind as well as that 
Of simpler folk. I'd spare you this, but still 



1 20 Edalatne, 

In you I know that reason governs more 

Than aught of idle prejudice could do, 

Or narrow-minded rule. — I ask you then, 

My sister, tell me if you think it right 

To stifle in our hearts the brave response 

Of those emotions deep and grand, that like 

The sweep of ocean wave, surge through the soul 

When waked by magic touch of nature's truths 

Or human woes we see in daily life ? 

Some men there are who crush emotions back 

Upon the heart till naught that's pure remains 

To quicken pulse, or waken in the soul 

A sympathetic chord of quick response. 

The world's becoming dead in soul, when hearts 

Should echo each to each like harps well tuned ; 

Each joy be doubled by the changes rung, — 

Our sadness meet a softened gleam of hope, 

Through sympathy with those who greater griefs 

Have known. And so, dear, be not grieved that I 



E da lame. 121 

( " >nfess I feel that nothing could my days 

More nobly occupy than touching, on 

The mimic stage of life, the hearts of men, 

To bid them see in imitations just, 

The tragic woes of men, wherein the griefs 

Of others match their own at last ; since things 

We look upon leave more impress than those 

We read. Some hearts, mayhap, unused to woes, 

Will thus be stirred from out the sluggish depths 

Of pleasures vain, to turn and think, — be moved 

To somewhat more intense of daily life, 

Than parrot-like to copy sole the weak 

And listless routine of a life we know 

To lux'ries given." 

" Think you then, my child, 
The stage so nobly plann'd to work out good, 
Not ill instead ? We have been taught in spite 
Of all the breadth of thought our elders claimed 
The stage is blame to those who walk its boards." 



122 Edalaine. 

"All that I know and feel. Who dares to face 
The ordeal must live down reproach from those 
Who will not follow what I can but deem 
Its noble ends." 

" You may be right, my child, 
I dare not say, — indeed I could but grieve 
To see you choose a life that brings such lures 
Of ill — but only promise me to wait 
Until we seek advice of those who know 
And can advise. I'll write our friend Dean Brent." 

Elizabeth took pen in hand at once 
To write the letter, telling him therein, 
While touching ne'er upon their past, concise 
And clear, her fears and hopes. 

" For aid," she came. 
Would he advise her what was best to do? 

A weary waiting 'twas to Edalaine, 
The coming word from him who linger'd still 
On foreign soil. 



Edalaine. 122 

Make no mistake," he wrote. 
" Remember this, that while some inward sense, 
Some inspiration of the heart doth lead 
Our choice in life— if left with us to choose 
What best we can fulfill, there's much at stake. 
Not inspirations must we trust alone, 
But sense of those requirements which are meet 
For our success. 

" Say to her this, I beg ; 
Her noble purpose fills my heart with pride, 
And though she failed 'twere nobly done to fail 
Through purposes so pure, not pride ; but ask 
Herself, if well she's weighed the needs within 
Herself to bring success. Think not my words 
Lack sympathy. The great upon the stage 
Must join rare traits of person and of mind ; 
Presence must lend its charm, the soul its pow'r. 
Deep readers of the human mind alone 
Can know each phase of life and live them o'er. 



1 24 Edalaine, 

Ideal imaginings must weave about 

A simple phrase, a world of thought, and wake 

A revelation in the hearts of those 

Who listen and behold. Historians they, 

To bring before the world its past, in true, 

Unsullied spirit of old time. And here 

They need not thought alone, but all the power 

Of philosophic minds. — Weigh well the case, 

And if of mind the same, let nothing be 

Undone to add to talents heaven-born, 

The lustre culture only gives. For this, 

Why not risk all, to come abroad where art 

Becomes of nature's self the counterfoil, 

Why not at least, seek first such paths of life 

As may lead surely toward the end in view? 

In this maturer world true art matures, 

And trusts itself to no such meteor-like 

Success as in our land is hailed outright 

As heaven-descended genius, but incurs 



Edalaine. 125 

A speedy fall, or lives by tolerance, — 
The mirage where small talents disappear." 

Ambition oft makes exiles of us all, 
Or duties which we take upon ourselves, 
To Edalaine there seemed no other choice, 
Content that others blessed her good intent 
It had not long discouraged her to feel 
She stood alone with this consent denied. 
A month of preparation passed ; farewells 
With God-speed from a score of friends they go 
And side by side upon the steamer's deck, 
A week from inland home, the sisters stand 
To see their native shore recede from view. 
A saddening sight 'twould seem to timid hearts, 
But then ambition ever has a wing 
That skyward gleams, regardless of the clouds; 
And, we must not forget, they bear with them, 
A wealth of memories, — the saddest ones 
To be through future years a tender joy ; 



1 26 Edalaine. 

'Twas something sacred to have known their grief ; 
For grief, when poignant sorrow yields to time, 
Exults in new-born strength, although at first 
The stricken heart seemed robbed of pow'r to 
strive. 

" I have forgot my past " in vanity 
Says he, whose faults like giant ogres haunt 
His steps, — " I have no past, it is a blank ; 
We live but in the present hour ; 'tis here 
We find our happiness, defeat, or death." 
Blind fool ! His deeds themselves belie the words. 
Why holds he secret enmity toward one, 
Or swears revenge the sweetest earthly joy ? 
What subtle chain now galls, now bids him smile 
In sheer contempt of self, that lets a ghost 
Of days long past walk side by side with joys 
He fain would taste to-day? And why so wide 
From what he dream'd in proud and noble youth, 
The tenor of his daily life ? Alas ! 



E da laine. 127 

The castle's built, the rampart's raised, and he 
With welded chain, lies prisoner within 
The walls he built in heedless, reckless haste, 
Not dreaming that they needs must stand through- 
out 
Eternity itself. And can he boast. 
" I have no past— 'tis banish'd from my thought ?" 
But lightly weighs the chain that's worn from choice, 

And oft its strength becomes our safeguard when 

Our castle's rampart trembles 'neath attack 

Of unknown foes. 

And so the sisters turned 

With hopeful eyes toward eastern lands, their hearts 

Awake to future usefulness, yet sad 

With weight of musing that for them, henceforth, 

Life would be strange ! 

Dame Evelyn, their loved 

And gentle mother, slept,— -her weary heart 

At rest, and yet the lives of both were filled 



i2,s Bdalatm, 

Willi presence real and palpable of her ; 
It was a benediction o'er their liv 

At last they i i c 1< r 
Upon the wave that bears them far from home, 

And thoughts <>f past or future (arcs arc now 

Supplanted by tin: novelty of their d.iys. 

The so. i an unknown world to them ; the ship 

A Naiad fleeting between .sun and wave, 

The Care of each; six; kisses with wet lips 
'I'he god who bears her on his breast. An isle 
It was were minds are brightened to their best 
Retort, where soul meets soul without a ( an 
I .. I t heSC swift friendships fail the test of time. 

Elizabeth ne'er saw her sister's heart 

So truly filled with joyousness and mirth; 

I lei beauty seem'd to gain some added charm, 

And brilliant speech t<> servo as setting rate. 
A diplomat, who rarely smiled, perceived 
It too, and oft retort Waged high between 



Edalain$* 129 

The tWO, h!fl Sternness inciting somewhat 'ne it!* 
Her gaily utter'd words whose strength gave sign 
( )f something deeper than the passing touch 

Of li}-,hlly uttered rr| >.i i I re, until 

I le bo w'd before her soul lil eye. wit li grace 

()f pride iu thus confessing tli.it his pOWCrS 

Pound mat< li in her, 

To Elizabeth, ii was 

A revelation marked with grave BUrpHse. 

" I dreamed her still a child," she mused ; "and yet 
She copes with Intellects thai < hallenge all 

The world!" 

1 i<-r voice whi< h, pure and high and clear, 

Had often waked t lie echoes of the hills 

At home, rang ou1 in joyous s1 rains urn hei k'd 
l>y warning words from tutor'd vocalists, 
That voices should nol spend themselves upon 

The empty sp.n <• j and SO um oir,< iously 

She sang as nature and her SOUl might prompt* 



1 30 Edalaine. 

The shadow of her life was not forgot, 
But hopefulness that now her aim would find 
Its perfect work had somewhat soothed her pain, 
And tears no longer blent their cadence with 
Her song; and she herself a happy maid, 
Seemed sole inspired to give to others joy. 

At eve one day this diplomat, who seemed 
No stranger now, but rather cherished friend, 
Said to her gravely, as she ceased her song, 
" I glean from what you say, and leave unsaid — 
Excuse the seeming freedom of my speech — 
That you demand fame of the tragic muse ; 
Why not make Song instead your life? Unless 
Perchance 'tis not yourself you give to art 
And aspiration, but caprice alone, 
Teasing meanwhile some loving, waiting heart 
That yearns, and waits the day the bird will turn, 
And seek the cage she now so coyly flees." 

" I then have reached no higher in the esteem 



Edalaine. i ^ i 

Of Arnold Deith," she said, " than that of weak, 
Capricious womankind ?" 

" Nay, nay," he said, 
" Not that— and yet all that. You are so young, 
So joyous and so free from care, I must 
Believe you choose a path in art that claims 
A life of toil with little recompense 
Without a thought of what it may portend ; 
For certain 'tis, your choice comes not from vain 
Desire to claim the empty praise of worlds, 
Nor yet from disappointments that lead some 
To choose a walk in life where busy scenes 
Help them to bury griefs, to hide their woes." 
His earnestness began to move her more 
Than merely words he spoke ; she felt he sought 
To know what lay beneath the gaiety 
And mirth ; he sought to sting her to retort 
By words less just than true. 



132 Edalaine. 

" Do none e'er choose 
The life you now describe in dread of woes 
They feel may come?" she said. 

" In morbid minds 
Such dread mayhap may rise — but why should 

thoughts 
Like these become a guest in heart so light, 
A life so young as yours ? What fear can wake 
Within your heart the thought that life will prove 
Less bright unto the end. It lies with you, 
Where'er your fancy leads your heart, to raise 
The standard victory, and claim at once 
The citadel that sure must yield to powers 
Of beauty, youth, and intellect." 

" A truce," 
She cried. " You now drop words of diplomat, 
That fall like sounding brass upon the ear, 
But lack the soul of truths that reach the heart. 
And yet forgive you them I must, since not 



Edalaine. 133 

Too weak to take offence at raillery, 

Or to be hurt when earnest words are deemed 

Too deep for puerile natures such as mine." 

" And are you then unconscious of the power 
You soon may wield o'er hearts of men," he asked. 
" I only know the power that bids me seek 
To voice the many conflicts of the heart." 
"Ah, then, you are inspired, and will succeed. 
But think you not this need you feel may soon 
Complete within its counterpart become 
When beats your heart response to one beloved ?" 
And here he took her hands in his, and gazed 
With searching earnestness upon her face. 
" I ne'er shall wed," she made reply, " e'en though 
I loved. That, then, can never, never be." 
And something stern, though sad of voice and 

mien, 
Seemed then to check desire to ask her more 
And he who never lacked for ready words 



134 E da lain e. 

Could find no speech. 

Just then her sister came. 
" Dear Edalaine, do sing a good-night song, 
The moon is playing hide-and-seek, and soon 
Will mark the midnight stroke of bell." 

"And what 
Shall be the song ?" Her voice was strange to him 
Who stood in silence at her side, and sent 
A thrill of pleasure through that heart, unused 
To yield to sudden impulses. They both 
Were moved to something strange, — " The night," 

he thought, 
And she, — " I wish it need not move my heart 
To say, I ne'er shall wed — a doom pronounced 
E'er danger nears. I have not loved as yet. 
Why need I fear ? And still, O God, I pray, 
Remove from me the power to love, and all 
Desire." 

Poor child, the need of loving came 



Edalaine. 135 

E'en with the prayer, as if to mock a heart 

That dreamed this life were meant to be a dearth 

Of all that's fair to usefulness. 

She sang, 
And never had her voice held half such charm. 
She sang as if it respite gave to grief. 
Her sister's tears bespoke a wakened past, 
Its bitterness and grief, while others felt 
The spell that marks ofttimes, in all our lives, 
An epoch never more to be forgot. 
As died the thrilling notes, she saw alone 
The silent form of Arnold Deith, who stood 
Apart, and never turned when others spoke. 
"Good-night," the others said, and then aroused 
From reveries so deep to wake was pain, 
He said, " The voice speaks truths the lips would 

fain 
" Belie." Then bending o'er her hand, " Beware 
Lest griefs too great be yours. The birthright love, 



136 Edalaine. 

May never be denied. Though passion's strength 
Be held in leash. The fiercest storms do come 
When nature makes resistance 'gainst itself. v 
And then, in softer tone, he said, " Good-night." 
You'll sing, and hearts will wake to nobler things 
Through magic of your voice — " and he was gone. 
Yes, she would sing, she felt it so herself, 
And wondered at her new and firm resolve. 
His words were half command, which she could 

not 
Resist, and would not, if she could ; and then 
Besought herself to think more light of one 
A stranger still. 

Long hours in wakefulness 
That night she lay, then slept, to be disturbed 
By phantoms of her childhood fears, that rose 
In vivid, fearful forms. She saw again 
Her father's death, and heard them say once more 



Edalaine. 1 3 7 

" He's mad,"— and then her dreams more fearful 

grew, 
Until the awful dread of all these years 
Became a real and hideous truth. She felt 
Its dreaded power weight down her every sense ; 
And. impotent to flee its bane, she cried, 
" Alas, 'tis come at last, I'm mad, I'm mad !" 
She woke in agony of fright, then slept 
To dream again its horrors and dismay. 
She dared not sleep a second time again 
To feel herself a conscious being, yet 
The author of strange deeds that were beyond 
Control of will. 

When morning came, she looked 
With startled eyes upon the face of those 
With whom she spoke, half fearing lest she there 
Might read the knowledge that her dreams were 

real 
And that her words might soon reveal to them 



138 Jul a la inc. 

The strangeness of unsettled mind. She watched 
Her words till Arnold Deith in wonder stood, 
And said within himself, u How cold she's grown 
And proud, — dismayed perhaps because I read 
To her somewhat the fires within her soul. 
'Tis vain. The fires that smoulder burn no less 
The fierce, when adverse winds bychance lay bare 
The substance, which they, hidden, hold in bonds 
Of glowing, living serfdom. Yes, she thinks 
The passions buried ; hearts well veiled are dead. 
She aims to be a marble statue, while 
She acts in mimic form the real of life 
Upon the stage. Nay, nay, 'tis not there lies 
Her power, but only that she feel, and lives 
To know the depth of soul, the noble pride 
That suffers and is strong." 

How far from truth 
And yet how near, were musings such as these ! 
Unconscious of his thoughts, she only fled 



Edalaine. 139 

The throng, to teach herself such fears were weak 

And brought no good. 

Sometimes her musings chased 

From life its worthiness, and pains she knew 

Were meted her seemed heavier weight than she 

Could bear, yet singularly she it was 

Whose tender joyous face brought smiles and mirth, 

Aye, happiness where'er she moved. 

One morn 

Awake at dawn she wandered to the deck 
And walked its length, before the sailors came 
To flood its planks till, white as snow, they gleam'd 
Beneath the glancing sunlight of the day. 
Afar a cloud peeped o'er the horizon, 
Then gradually unfolded banners white 
Of black and white, or glanced in prismic hues, 
As it uprose to catch the sun. 

Long time 
She gazed upon the object, till, amazed, 



140 Edalaine. 

She walked across the deck and timidly 
Aroused the drowsy watchman who, with hand 
Upon the wheel, was deep in revery 
Or mayhap something nearer sleep. 

"I beg 
You, sir," she said, " is that a cloud, or do 
We pass so near enchanted land ?" 

At first 
Surprised he follow'd her and raised his glass 
To sweep the broad expanse of sea. The face 
Beneath its bronze turned white. 

" Good God defend,' 
He cried, " enchanted lands were best, few miles 
Away and bearing straight upon us, child. 
It is an iceberg ! 

Shrill he gave alarm, 
And scarce an instant passed till through the ship 
The word of danger rang, confused with cries, 
And men with stern set faces gazed afar ; 



Edalaine. 1 4 1 

Beheld their doom, then turned to battle 'gainst 
Swift death. No holiday diversion this 
To stand aside while panoramic fields 
Of ice moved by. 

The women came aloft 
And huddled 'gainst the cabin. Many sobbed 
Forgotten pray'rs, as toward them came what 

might 
Have been a splendid palace meant to bring 
Them wondering joy instead of fear. 

Amidst 

The agonized throng, that only wait 

While others work, Elizabeth with calm 

And cheerful words moved here and there, now 

spoke 
Of hope, and too besought them govern fear 
That men might better work to save their lives. 
And Edalaine, as if this glittering mass 
Had fascinated thus her very soul, 



142 E da lazne. 

Leaned 'gainst the bulwarks lost in ecstacy 
Of sight. 

On, on it came and drove the sea 
In fierce gigantic waves that bore aloft 
The ship then dropped her down to darkness, 

while 
The towering wave she left, curled o'er to throw 
Its lash of bitter brine as if it scoffed 
A trivial thing. 

Impenetrably black 
The palace seemed, then through some broken 

niche 
A cavern vast of stalactites it shone 
With thousand gleaming hues. 

When Edalaine 
Was roused by cries about her; roused to sense 
Of danger to the ship, she felt annoyed 
That life now seemed so small a thing and fear 
Held in her heart no place. 



Edalaine. 143 

Once Arnold Deith, 
Who paused in passing, drenched himself with 

brine, 
Snatched from the deck a shawl which 'round her 

form 
He folded close, and so an instant held 
Her in convulsive clasp and then was gone 
Before her tremor of surprise had passed. 
Useless skill of mariner! Though changed 
The ship's swift course, yet ever nearer seemed 
This moving world that menaced them, and like 
A battle from afar whose musketry 
Resounded with a deafening round of shot, 
So came the chill reverberations, drowned 
At times by rushing waves that deluged them 
With icy foam, or rocked them in the abyss 
Of waves. 

At last above them grandly towered 
The frightsome thing, and as they sank, all knew 



144 Edalainc. 

The coming wave would dash them at its base. 
Down, down they sink in furrows of the wave. 
All souls not faint with fear, commend themselves 
To saving grace; a curious muffled sound, 
A shuddering shock ; men braced themselves like 

steel, 
And women hid their sight. " We are aground," 
A skipper said, another wave that drove 
Them closer, yet they were not freed, nor v/ere 
They shattered by the shock. Above them loom'd 
The glittering green, and here and there an arm 
O'erhung them like a scaffold grim of death. 
A fiercer wave, and they were wedged between 
A gleaming fissure that an instant might 
Suffice to engulph them 'neath a monument 
As cruel as 'twas wildly grand. Loud creaked 
The frozen raft, and thunders shook the wave 
Beneath the ship, and groans like human woes, 
From out the glittjring caves were borne to them, 



Edalaine. 145 

Thick shadows fell and it was night before 

They dreamed the day begun, though years 

could not 
Efface the eternity of the woe their hearts 
Had known. All night the weak ones pray'd, the 

strong 
Could wait on God unsyllabled. Again 
The morn uprose and they were drifting south, 
A helpless wreck, now held by giant foe 
While o'er it swept the lashing wave, enraged 
That such a prize be snatched from out their 

power. 
Oft fear, like grief, will know a calm and wake 
To strength through borrowed hopefulness. The 

ship 
Imprisoned, bore the onslaught of the waves 
With small alarm of ill, the worst was done, 
They only drove her firmer 'gainst the ice. 
And now in deadly calm they pray and wait 



146 Edalaine. 

Release that still must be a miracle — 

While o'er them hung the cloud uncertainty, 

The urgent needs of life demanded food 

And this in rations carefully allowed, 

And sleep — that first refused to dwell where cries 

That seemed the spirit of the damned arose 

Where thundering roars and creaking masses rent 

The air, — at last crept o'er the grieving hearts. 

And like a monody of peace its roar 

Swept through their dreams like sweetest lullaby, 

A solemn thing it is to daily dwell 

With grim, unpitying death, to face the truth 

Bereft of every subterfuge. In hearts 

Of men such cleansing fires develop traits 

That bless them whether life return, or Heaven's 

Wide gates unclose to teach them spiritual things. 

E'en those that 'gainst the irrevocable 

Do battle with unbending will, become 

More chastened. 



Edalaine. 147 

Edalaine these dreary days 
Was like a spirit, bringing hopeful joy, 
'Twas not the words she said, the hope sL 

spake, 
But resignation that illumined all 
Her face with tender joyfulness. " Afraid ?" 
" 'Tis nature to recoil from pain, but death 
When once accepted, more we dread the ills 
Of life, be sure its sad uncertainties 
Are worse than death." 

The days of anxious dread 
Wore on, already they had drifted south 
For fourteen days. Meridian suns had spent 
Their force in vain to free th' imprisoned ship. 
'Twas midnight, and a sudden tempest wak'd 
Around the floating continent of ice. 
Its ghostly minarets, its towers grand 
Stood out like shining marble as the flames 
Of lightning swift succeeding each 



148 Edalaine. 

New fear 
Clutched human hearts, these souls now used to 

thought 
Of death, and scarcely was the danger born 
Before a cry of fire was heard. 

" The boats!" 
Vain cry ! These once reserved for urgent need 
Were useless, wedged between the walls of ice, 
A hopeless murmur passed all lips, then ceased, 
They now were used to hopelessness — a pause 
Succeeded as the flames uprose, — a calm 
As if the elements stood still, or held 
A consultation with their powerful hosts. 
Then mightier thunders rose than mind conceives, 
As bolt on bolt the ice king's palace rived 
In twain. It parted swiftly, sweeping back 
And left the weak, dismantled ship aflame. 
Affrighted ones sprang o'er the sides to meet 
In waves an enemy less dread than fire. 



Edalaine. 149 

But Heaven now oped her gates to pour on them, 
A deluge that no flame could live beneath, 
And rocked between receding cliffs they rose 
And fell, till life or death was one to them. 
As morning came the waves had quieted, 
Yet danger was so near that men who lived 
Half envied those whose strife was o'er. 

Three days 
They drifted, hunger half appeased, — devoured 
With thirst, — when joyous cry of " Sails, ho, sails !" 
Arose. Strong men grew weak and scarce believed. 
A woman, Edalaine, had fainted. Soon 
Confirmed, the eager eyes, the haggard cheeks 
Were turned to watch for signal, that they came 
Indeed to save. 

What need to follow them? 
Some grieved for lost ones, scarcely wishing life, 
The rest resigned, now woke again to life, 
And brought to it a meaning never known 
Before the rod of Might had chastened them. 



1 50 Edalaine. 

Two years had looked upon the world, brought 

change, 
And left their calendar in hearts of men. 
For Edalaine they opened such a wealth 
Of lore, such joy of seeking but to find, 
They seemed a dream of paradise ; bright days 
Of sunshine, such as study ever brings 
Th' enthusiast, and if at times the fear 
Of future ill beset her tender heart, 
The thousand occupations of her life 
Were sure to dissipate the thought, as oft 
The victim of a dire disease forgets 
The doom of death. 

Dean Brent, the same old friend 
Had made of Paris in these years the field 
Of new research, and famed as scientist 
He stood among the men whose works had moved 
With wonder all the world. 



Edalaine. 1 5 1 

To Edalaine 
He came with all his plans for future good 
Unto mankind, and she with trustfulness 
Into his ear her every secret poured 
Except the one, — the hideous nightmare, worse 
Than death, which came so oft to mar her peace. 
Elizabeth had wondered not to see 
These two become so dear. " He has forgot," 
She mused, " and loves again, and so 'tis well. 
What man could meet my sister's eyes, and gaze 
Therein each day, without impassioned love ?" 
And then she knelt to pray for blessings on 
Their love, and once or twice took from her desk 
A faded rose, a letter marked with tears 
And after kissing them, stood o'er the grate 
Irresolute, for something stayed her hand, 
And then once more she hid them in their place. 
One day he sought her side,— " Would speak," 
he said, 



1 5 2 Edalaine, 

" Of matters which he felt of grave import. 
He seemed much moved. Elizabeth, as was 
Her wont, was calm and placid, for she knew 
Full well of what and whom he meant to speak. 
" Elizabeth," he said, " 'tis years since near 
The village stream I held your hand and lent 
My thoughts to words which found offence to 

heart 
So loyal to the living charge. Sweet girl ! 
She now fulfills, and more, your hopes for her, 
And, like your love, has that of mine increased. 
I ask of you, Elizabeth, my best 
Beloved of friends, what word of words is mine 
To bear the one we both do love ? Your work 
All done, you sure can give her up, or else 
Consent that you and I unite in care 
Of one we both do love." 

" Go, say to her," 
Elizabeth replied, with outstretched hands, 



Edalaine. 153 

"That to your wish, consent I gladly give, 

That to this end I daily prayed the Lord. 

Not now," she gently said, as he would kiss 

Her brow, that paled beneath his look, " not now, 

Leave me alone to think, — it is so new, 

So sudden come, leave me alone, and go 

To her, whilst I compose myself to think 

Of dreams so bright, thus joyously fulfilled." 

"All mine," he said to Edalaine, who smiled 

Through tears, as both her hands he clasped in his. 

" Go whisper in your sister's ear what most 

Your heart would say. She needs brave words 

from you. v 
Not loth, she softly tapped upon the door. 
No answer came at first, and then she spoke. 
" My sister, let me in. You sure will hope 
For me your door?" And soon a pallid face 
With heavy lids and tear-stained cheeks, had met 
Her own. 



154 



Edalaine. 



11 And is it then so sad a thing 

The being loved?" the younger said. 

11 Alas, 
"lis giving up thy care," she sadly said, 
" Oh, that is naught, indeed, it will not be, 
I ne'er shall wed, you know." 

"Will ne'er be wed?" 
In wonder and amaze the elder asked. 
" You ne'er will wed, and still accept the love 
That's proffered you ?" 

" Ah, no, though love there be, 
And there arc men both good and grand, I ne'er 
Must think of love that brings the marriage bond." 
" Why, child, what words are these ? I fail to 

read 
The meani ng they do hide," 

And Edalaine, 
Love-sheltered in her sister's arms, replied, 
" I never thought to tell you this, to grieve 



Edalaine* [eg 

Your noble heart, hut since you gave so much 
Through love of me— for Dean has told me all 
That happened long ago— you now shall hear 

The secret of my life." And then slur poured 
Into her sister's ear the tale of nights 
Of torture, grief, and fear thai oft beset 

Her, spite of reasoning powers and strength of will 

At bitter knowledge that to her must fall 

The heritage of woe which years ago 

Had rendered them both fat Iki less. She told 
The tale that reached her orphaned ears, the 

words 
That buried themselves into her heart and brain. 
For her, she learned, must love e'er be a book 
Closed sealed, or else must brim; but sacrifice, 
And yet love stays not hence by force of will. 
" You love ?" her sister said. 

"Alas, there's one," 

And blushes crept o'er all her face, that Looked 



156 E da I nine. 

A rose that sudden opes its petals wide 
At kiss of sun. "I could have loved, I think, 
Had bitterness not frightened me for dreams 
So sweet. And now, my sister, I would fill 
My life with art." 

"And Dean, knows he of this?" 
" Why pain the heart of one so kind with griefs 
Like mine ? 'Twould do no good." 

" And yet 'twere right 
To tell him all, for fanciful alarms 
Are these, and should be overcome, my child." 
" That, as you think, Elizabeth. If so 
You choose, I'll tell him all, or leave to you 
The task, but let it not cast gloom upon 
The brightness of your future life." And then 
She left her sister, with a sigh, and sought 
Her books and solitude. 

Her sister knelt, 
And wept again. All hope of joy in life 



Edalaine. 157 

Seemed swept away in knowledge of this loss 
To Edalaine. 

" Weak fool, I dreamed to spare 
Her all the ills of life ; and since a child, 
Though walking side by side, we two, the earth, 
I never knew the secret grief that wrecks 
Her life ! Not done my work. 'Tis he perchance 
Who yet may teach forgetfulness, may yet 
Convince her these are idle fears alone." 
A little later, and she nerved herself 
To tell to Dean the story she had heard. 
"Dear friend," she said, "our Edalaine declares 
She ne'er will wed. Forgive me, then, if now," — 
"'Tis ever Edalaine," he said, half vexed. 
" I, well, I'm wrong, — you're right, the more my 

love 
For you ; but if she ne'er will wed, need that 
Decrease our happiness?" His hearer gazed, 
Her heart stood still, and then a sudden beat 



158 Edalaine. 

Seemed near to burst its bounds with anger stirred 

Her veins to tingle with a flood of fire. 

Had he, then too, been tainted with the curse 

That fell upon Ceresco's happy vale ? 

" O Dean, can ears believe such words as these, — 

Your happiness ? You dare to ask of me 

My child to be disgraced by love unblest 

By ring or holy wedlock band ?" 

" Dare ask 
For love ? Elizabeth, 'tis I who stand 
Amazed ! For love unblest by heaven? No, 
A thousand times I answer no ! Your love 
I ask, — your hand I beg to bless my life. 
Have I so meanly wooed that yet you'd yield 
To Edalaine all life, all love, all praise ? 
O my beloved, let all these years to you 
Be witnesses of loyal love. To you 
Alone I consecrate my life, and that 
Which of your life must be a part." 



Edalaine, 159 

And she, 
In pallid wonder, struggled with herself. 
" But — Edalaine — 'twill break her heart. She 

loves — " 
Then ceased, as Edalaine before her stood. 
"Not brother Dean, dear sister mine," she laid 
Her sister's trembling hand in his, then fled 
The room to weep for joy. 



BOOK IV. 

Then marriage bells rang out their joyous chimes 

Of hope fulfilled. To Edalaine they brought 

A sense of freedom now to merge in art 

The abnegation of her love, convinced 

That naught could chain her to domestic life, 

Elizabeth, her faithful friend, had found 

The one to fill her heart with peace and love 

All unaware that art would drift the child 

She'd nourished long, so far from home and love. 

Elizabeth beheld success that step 

By step she gained, and was content. She came 

And went, and ministered to other hearts 

The peace she felt new-born within herself. 

[161] 



1 62 Edalaine. 

Sometimes unheralded on mimic stage 

She trod, and 'midst the throng a face awoke 

The power to give th' interpretation rare 

To song, which marks the narrow line between 

The great, and those who never reach beyond 

The good, — that touch, that floods the list'ner's 

soul 
With thrills of exultation to exclaim, 
"Ah, that is grand, 'tis heart that speaks, not 

voice !*' 
At such a time some wondering ones would ask, 
u Who may she be that but to-day we hear 
Her voice, and hearing her revere the name 
Lately unknown to us in art of song ?'' 
While listening to echoes of such praise, 
She smiled, and thought, " They do not under- 
stand 
The art which shrinks from title of itself, 
Avoiding undue public praise, is wise ; 



Edalaine. 163 

Lest parts not moulded to a perfect whole 
Forget the ideal realm at which they aim, 
To bask in idle luxury and vain 
Display." Nor would she yield the simple means 
She chose to reach the zenith of her art, 
When urged by worldlier minds to seek re- 
nown, 
Nor wait till fame unsought came of itself. 
While now Elizabeth to duties dear 
Of home and kindred ties lent all her thoughts, 
She sometimes wondered at the flight of time 
Since last she held her sister in her arms, 
To note with jealous eye if aught of change 
Had crept between them or supplanted love, 
And youthful purity of deed and thought. 
But frequent letters marked the flight of time ; 
One came from Rome, another Naples, then 
Perchance the next from German provinces 



1 64 Edalaine. 

Brought greetings filled with cheerful, loving 

phrase. 
All climes, all nations that are one with art, 
Were each and all made points of pilgrimage. 
At last she wrote of Egypt, and was gone 
Ere anxious love could pray her stay near home. 
And she, devoted now to song, thought not 
The world too wide, nor knew that they who wait 
Have more of pain than those who do and dare. 
Somehow, this voyage brought to mind her first, 
And faces rose, with power to move her soul, 
And taught that nor toil nor study could 
O'ercome the longings of the human heart. 
The sunlight as it kissed the wave seemed that 
Which filled the day, at sea when listening 
To Arnold Deith, he glowingly in words 
Had pictured her the Orient — Five years ! 
How long and yet how swift their flight had been ! 



Edalaine. 165 

And he— had like forgot the " little girl," 

For so he chose to call her then, — one short 

And hasty visit as he turned from France 

To treat with Mexico for some new code. 

A bantering word, a smile half earnest, then 

" Good-by," and when she thought him gone, she 

felt 
A weight upon her heart which she herself 
Could not explain. 

" Good-by," he had returned, 
" My sister would God-speed in other guise 
Have granted me, since death treats not as guests 
The stranger in the land to which I go." 
And she, if power of eyes that woo'd her own, 
Or glance her sister gave which said, " Be kind," 
Could not have told, but speed of sister then 
She gave. 

" God bless you, sir, and bring you safe 
To sisters' hearts." And then at thought of them, 



1 66 Edalaine. 

More eloquent than words, those orbs fit termed 
The soul's reflection, screened themselves behind 
A trembling sea of tears, which rested there 
As if resolved to wash their color out. 
And now, each breeze that blew, the gulls that 

skimmed 
The air, the shadows on the waves, the songs 
Of sailors, or the boatswain's call, seemed each 
To wake some word he uttered, or his glance. 
One day, while dreaming thus, her heart stood still 
To see a child that played about the deck 
Stand heedless, while a quickly low'ring spar 
Was threat'ning death. With cry of fright, she 

sprang 
And seized the fragile babe, that screamed it knew 
Not why, as oft contagious fear is worse 
Than that we can explain ; and Edalaine, 
Soothing her fears with tender words and smiles, 
Soon found, reclining in her chair, " Mamma," 



Edalaine. 167 

Where, helpless, pale, and sad, she sat alone. 

Such beauty seldom found a counterpart, 

And, as her earnest voice spoke words of thanks, 

Its gentle sadness waked in Edalaine 

An inward sense that here was one whose need 

Of strength to overcome deep-seated woe 

Was greater than her own. 

All day she sat 
In cheerful converse, or she read, to lead 
The thoughts to outward things, nor dared to show 
In word or deed the sympathy she felt. 
" Tis strength she needs," thought Edalaine, made 

wise 
By knowledge of the human heart ; and so 
Each day she ministered unquestioning 
A mind disordered by its fears and woes. 
" She's stronger than I thought," she said to self, 
As day by day she watched the efforts made 
To overcome the pressure of some grief 



1 68 E da lame. 

She hid from human eyes, until at length 

The child began to droop, and soon they saw 

That death stood waiting for the breaking threads. 

Within the mother's frame new life infused, 

She silently bent o'er her child, to fight 

With death, nor spoke, but looked her thanks to 

all 
Who came to aid, or bring new-found relief, 
To Edalaine she clung for sympathy, 
And oft, when agonized, her eyes made speech 
In mute appeal for hope to Edalaine, 
It seemed a cruel irony of fate 
That one who suffered much must bear yet more. 
But come it must, this added grief, and when 
One night a murky darkness, blent with roar 
Of wind and creak of mast, when waves o'erswept 
The vessel's deck, as if to laugh in scorn 
At man's presumptuous skill, to send adrift 
A mechanism that should dare to cope 



Edalaine. 169 

With might of stormy winds, the last thread 

snapped 
In twain, and life had been extinct for hours 
Before they dared reveal the truth to her. 
And when it broke upon her sense they stood 
Amazed at wildness of her grief. 

" O wind 
And wave, but bear me from this wretched life ! 
Sole witness of my guilt sustain'd my life. 
Chained to my sin, I lived to bear my cross 
Until I loved it more than life,— now gone 
My punishment is that I live alone I" 
In ravings such as these to Edalaine 
Somewhat of this poor creature's grief became 
Revealed. 

" Poor soul ! moer sinned against, I ween, 
Then one who sinned. With time alone can grief 
Be overcome and peace restored." And so 



1 70 Edalaine. 

When strength gave way 'neath such a strain of 

nerve, 
To Edalaine and to her maid was left 
The friendly care she needed then. Long time 
She lay to reason lost, and Edalaine, 
Whom sacred trust felt words which came from 

lips 
That spoke without the guard of consciousness, 
Tried not to heed, till from her lips there fell 
A name that made the pulses of her heart 
Stand still. 

" O Arnold, Arnold Deith, forgive, 
Forgive ! nor send me forth to exile worse 
Than death !" And then her words, more indistinct, 
Became but fitful moan, while she who heard 
Sat still as if an icy hand had clutched 
Her heart, and held it there relentlessly. 
She rose, and faced the night. She tried to think 
What fancy turned this blackness o'er her heart. 



Edalaine, 1 7 1 

The heated cabin ? Then to chaos turned, 
Her thoughts refused to question or reply. 
In vain her vision sounded heaven's dark vault, 
And naught walked with her there but agony. 
Her vow of years ago came back, — " I ne'er 
Will wed, e'en though I love. O God, deny 
The power to love and all desire !" And now 
Was this then love ? A maddened jealousy ? 
A spectre pitiless to haunt her steps 
And laugh in wild derision of her woes ? 
Oh, bitterness to other beings spared ! 
Why could she not have lived in ignorance 
Of heart-aches such as these, and think it grand 
To saennce a love when most it plead 
The worthiness of object loved ? But no, 
Not so to learn at once she loved, and he 
Had another wronged, t' unveil the niche 
That held the idol of her heart, and prove 



1 72 Edalaine. 

At once its worthlessness, was punishment 
She had not thought deserved. 

At last she turned 
And sought repose, but still with dumb, white face, 
Her eyes oped wide and gazing into space, 
She lay all night. " Tis past," she said at morn. 
" I feel no grief, no woe is mine. 'Twas night 
That weighted down my heart, — there is no love. 
Ah, well, I mean such love as I did dream 
Last night." And so, in reasoning, she half 
Believed it was a dream, but facing then 
The suff'ring stranger, such a pity filled 
Her breast, she felt a consecration pure 
To ease with loyal sisterhood her grief. 
Their voyage ended, still she proffered her 
Protecting friendship ; paused 'midst cares of art 
To minister the balm of hopefulness 
Within the lonely heart she felt was pure. 
And witnessing the crowned success in song 



Edalaine. \ 73 

Of her, so strong and yet so beautiful, 
The weaker one oft said, " Your beauty grows, 
Dear Edalaine, with loving care you give 
Your work. Might I but fill my life with such 
A glorious task 'twere yet methinks less sad 
To live ; but even voice has been denied 
To me, and worthlessly my life drifts on." 

The singer sighed. " Ah, yes, it lightens 
grief 
To work, but you were made to lighten toil 
Of others; there alone beside the hearth, 
Your work is found." And as the other paled 
And shivered, hearing hopeful words like these, 
The speaker added, " Yes, I know you think 
Them lost for aye ; but mark my promises, — 
'Tis better be the pjrson wronged than do 
Another wrong." 

" Alas, alas, no more, 
I pray, there is no hope for me, no hope ! 



1 74 Edalaine. 

The very heavens stand appalled at sin 

Like mine." And Edalaine. who sought to cheer, 

Had made as one is prone, the heart more sad. 

u Forgive me, Geraldine," she said, " I wound 

Where I would cheer. Let not thy sin do wrong 

Beyond itself, but seek for comforting 

In higher thoughts. Decide thyself to do 

Some good on earth, however sad the heart. 

Till grow in courage when the good done man 

In daily rounds of ordered tasks revert 

At last to cheer thy own poor stricken life." 

With spring-time Edalaine had turned toward home, 

And that with eagerness. Not all the praise 

She took with her could stifle in her heart 

A longing for her sister's loving words 

And quiet ways. Some chord within her breast 

Was out of tune. " 'Tis spring," she said, " at 

home 
I'll find with rest a lighter heart," and she 



Edalaine. 175 

Who'd now become indeed a sister's care 

Sobbed out her grief at being left alone. 

She dared not say, " Return with me ;" she felt ] 

'Twas better not, and so without a word 

Of hope, though such she felt within herself, 

She said good-by. She had not even heard 

Her story, for, when once she strove to speak, 

But stopped to struggle with her rising sobs, 

Then Edalaine said, " Nay, I can but love 

And cherish you for what you are. I know 

Whate'er the past, the wrong was not your own 

Alone ; and suffering that purifies 

Has magnified the best that nature gave. 

Be hopeful, true unto yourself until 

In time you reap both peace and happiness." 

And gratefully the little woman twined 

Her arms about hsr generous friend, whose depth 

Of generosity she did not dream 

(How could she know whom Edalaine had loved ?) 



1 76 Edalaine. 

She kissed the lips that spoke such confidence, 
And watched the steamer westward bound, with 

eyes 
That looked through blinding tears. 

And Edalaine 
At home once more, for Paris still she claimed 
As home, had found so much of heart-felt love 
And peace, she scarce believed her heart e'er knew 
A grief. The children that she left were changed 
In all but love and confidence, and then 
What restful balm she felt her sister's love. 

One day, while wandering slowly through 
the Louvre, 
She met and greeted Arnold Deith. Her words 
Playfully spoken, covered up her pain 
With seeming raillery and mirth ; but how 
Her gentle heart beneath it all was pierced 
With sorrow, thinking of her Geraldine ! 
Their friendship was renewed ; they wandered oft 



Edalaine. 177 

Through scenes of art and beauty, and she felt 

In wonder at herself a deep belief 

That he was innocent of wrong, and then 

By duty stifled in her breast, she found 

In undercurrents of his words a clew 

To base suspicions which devoured her heart 

Though sternly holding self responsible 

To justice. 

Oft, when softened by the glimpse 
Of what in truthful souls would bear the name 
Of sentiment, that can be known alone 
In souls accord with thoughts sublime, she forced 
Herself to find them false as he was base, 
Until his very attributes and grace 
Of mind appeared arraigned by justice stern, — 
The very essence of a villainy 
Refined. At other times she shrank with fear 
And horror at her own black doubts. " How vile 
My mind must be to turn to baser ends 



i yS Edalaine. 

What seems so fair!" and then some whisper soft 
Of breezes, bearing on their breath the name 
Of Geraldine, gave strength to doubts. 

One eve 
Tney sat beneath the vines till stars came out 
Through twilight tremblingly, and night had 

touched, 
With soft and solemn melancholy, earth. 
The planets whirled above their heads so swift 
Their evolutions were not marked, but seemed 
To stand in motionless array. 

Of this 
They talked when silence fell upon them both. 
At last he spoke, as if he gave to thought 
Unconscious utterance. 

" What subtle, rare 
Delight to sound the soul of one we meet 
Unmindful, then, awaking to know our thoughts 
Enthralled by mystery that we find in life 



Edalaine. 1 79 

Of one but late unknown. You'll ne'er believe 
What mystery you are to me, my friend, 
I've noted you when least you thought, and much 
Have wondered o'er the oneness of your life. 
Though gay, you're often sad ; though young 

seem old ; 
Esprit and beauty that would lead not few 
To give their lives to pleasure and delight, — 
These have no power to lure you from the path 
Of meditation, study, and of art. 
How few among the narrow world that scorns 
The stage could understand all this, when I, 
A man that's seen the whole of life, its good 
And ill, can scarcely comprehend." 

And she, 
" Why not? Is good so rare, unknown a thing? 
The doubting ones find life upon the stage 
Impossible with purity; but why? 
Tis true, that 'stead of stern control o'er all 



180 Jul a la inc. 

Emotions of the heart, their gifts to bring 
Before the world the best and worst of life. 
But learn the teachers not themselves as well 
The lesson taught?" 

" Alas, such reasoning 
Sounds well, dear Edalaine, but see we not 
Examples all around of women lost, 
Who flaunt their sins upon the stage ? And you 
Must bear contempt because of them," 

She flushed 
A little, then turned pale. 

" That phrase sounds hard 
But some compassion fills my heart for those 
Who do not know that while they may contemn 
The stage, and find in other fields their means 
Of teaching, 'twould be ill of you, who might 
Administer some good, where want is known 
To say, " Who needs this help must come to me 



Edalaine. 1 8 1 

In place of seeking through the haunts where most 
Such needs do congregate. Upon the stage 
We reach a class that come not there for good, 
But only seek in life to be amused ; 
And did we publish it, 'twould likely fright 
Them from the door, but all the more must we 
Sincerer ones, amidst their pleasure drop 
Some seed of good, that all unconsciously 
Will spring within their hearts, and then at last 
Bear fruit." 

"Ah, yes, but what can one pure girl 
Amidst such reckless company e'er hope 
To do ? What good from lessons taught by those 
The world thinks guilty of immoral deeds?" 
A flash of anger sprang into her face, 
To his a glimmering smile she did not see. 
"You go too far," she said, " for such low minds 
Though our contempt out-weight their own, we 
hold 



1 82 Edalaine. 

Ourselves above of giving them a thought. 

Although 'tis fashion of all ages known 

To heap examples of the evils there, 

None ever took an equal pains to show 

The like in circle of their quiet homes, 

Or more (and God forbid they should) within 

Their church." And now aroused to keenest 

sense 
Of grief and anger both, the tears rolled down 
Her cheeks. " And counted I the wrongs of those 
I knew as child and woman, people screened 
By influence of home, and those I've known 
Since then upon the stage, I'd say at once 
Its highway safer far than subtleties 
That came to ruin those I left behind. 
Oh, could I tell the world what sacrifice 
Is hidden 'neath the trappings of the stage ! 
How nobly struggle timid girls to drive 



• 



Edalaine. 183 

From door of home its want. I've known poor 

girls 
Whose sense of neatness shrank to meet my glance 
That boots gave silent witness of their needs, 
Or shabby dress was sad and queer exchange 
For sheeny costume they had worn but now 
Upon the stage. Oh, how my heart has warmed 
Toward them, scarce comprehending such a weight 
Of life, to know, that, with a sigh that spoke 
Content, and yet the piteous thought the sum 
Was far too small, the envelope which held 
Their pay, unopened, found its way to hand 
Of mother, so to pay the needs of home 
Which ever seemed to be ahead of toil !" 
" But then," he interrupts, " think of yourself ; 
The most of those you meet have not so fine 
A sense of feeling. Think you not that one 
Must feel an influence — " 

11 1 comprehend. 



1 84 Edalaine, 

But let us turn to life at home," her tears 

Had dried themselves upon the heavy lids 

That shrouded eyes whose tenderness seemed half 

Appeal through speaking words decisively. 

" The man that tends your petted steed, that hands 

You forth your whip, the boy who blacks your 

boots, 
The one who trims your hair, or gives by chance 
A light for your cigar, who brings the news, — 
Are they not of your life essential part ? 
And yet the abstract portion born to serve. 
Their phrases set, you hear each day, your word 
Of kindliness, unconsciously bestowed. 
They treasure fast within their hearts ; but they 
Of influence upon your life have none, 
And of your day each plays his part, then goes 
Forgot till habit calls his services." 
" 'Tis not the same," and he, the speaker, shook 



'Edalatne. 185 

His head in doubt, "these people think them- 
selves 
Your equal, or your peer, do criticise 
Or more, become familiar— that degrades 
The most, it does not seem to make you fear." 
" Nay, pause," she said, and this time spoke with 

more 
Of sternness, which he coulu not comprehend. 
" Tis said familiar ways breed that contempt 
We may full soon resent— ours then the blame. 
I understand the scope, you'd say when we 
Take in our hands a coal, it leaves upon us there 
The token of its black'ning, grimy touch. 
Where do we find escape from those whose touch 
May bring pollution ? In the hearts of men 
We own as equals hides there not deceit, 
Base treachery, and worse, foul acts against 
All justice, mercy, truth, humanity, 
Or love ?" 



1 86 Edalaine, 

" Too true, too true, your words awake 
The shadows of a past I dare not now 
Disclose," and agitation swept his face 
That plainly proved to her his guilt. 

" But how 
Our words have led us from my first intent," 
He said, when thrice he'd paced the length that lay 
Between the garden walls, " for, Edalaine, 
My bitter arguments against the stage 
Are selfish ones, I love you as my life ! 
And though I've tried full long to stifle love, 
Have tried to teach my heart a disbelief 
In you, with all the world of womankind, 
Your life has cast its radiance round my own, 
Has chased away its shadows one by one, 
Till once again I look upon the world 
To say, ' Some good there yet remains while lives 
My Edalaine.' Tis strange, you think, to woo 
With doubting words, alas, the curse has been 



Edalaine. 187 

My own. Bring hope, nay heav'n itself renewed 

By blessed sounding words that shall bring faith 

And drop upon my soul with tender touch 

The balm forgetfulness of all that's vile. 

For so I think all bitter pain that's dulled 

My past would vanish, could I hear thee say 

' I love thee, Arnold, and will be thy wife.' " 

An icy chill had fallen on the heart 

Of Edalaine ; she heard the words as if 

They were pronounced afar, nor could she think 

Or fashion her reply, until he came 

And, ere she knew, had clasped her in his arms. 

A viper's cold and clammy touch had not 

More startled her, she shrank. 

" Nay, Arnold Deith, 
Could I but love you, 'twere my least of griefs ; 
I ne'er should wed, but yet 'twere better live 
In loving from afar, than know the God 
We worshiped was but clay!" 



1 88 Edalaine. 

" What problem this?" 
He said, " I do not understand." 

<l Thy heart 
Its guilt doth better comprehend than words 
Of mine. I know not if with phrase of love, 
If promises of future blissfulness 
And honor moved the confidence of one 
Who, dragged to precipice of wrong, you left, 
Without a hope in life. Abhorred of self, 
Betrayed by you, she wandered. 

Well for me 
Who shrined an idol all unconsciously 
Within my heart, I found her ere too late, 
But not too late for her despair, nor my 
Poor peace of mind, for ill the heart that aye 
Must gaze upon a shattered heap of clay. 
Poor Geraldine !" 

He paled. " Poor Geraldine ! you met 
My wife !" and beads of agony diffused 



Edalaine, 1 89 

His brow, and she with wonder-stricken face 
Had echoed too, his words of inquiry. 
" Your wife ? she, Geraldine, is then your wife?'' 
" She is my wife. She zvas my wife," and when 
She would have silenced him, he sternly bade 
Her listen. " Stay, for Edalaine, whate'er 
Your mandate, I have right to claim respect, 
And dare not for my future good leave doubt 
In mind of her I love as hope of heaven. 
For it is my hope of future peace," and pale 
As death he faced her whom he dared not' touch. 
" You think me traitor, doubly so, since I 
Have offered love to you. I never thought 
My lips could name the past. Indeed, it seemed 
To me that if one named its shameful page 
Scarce would I hold myself from dealing death 
To him who dared to word my deep disgrace." 
" Nay, do not tell me," Edalaine had said, 
Her only wish the reparation just. 



1 90 Edalaine. 

" It must be told, else peace there s none on earth 

When you are thinking ill of me. You know 

Somewhat my life, that duties in the past 

Have often called me from my home, — enough. 

My brother is a priest, and when away, 

He served as guardian in the home I left. 

On one return of absence long, I marked 

In person of my wife the signs of guilt — " 

And here he faltered, then a moment paused 

To gain his strength, and spoke again. " 'Twas 

full 
Two years before I saw your face. I made 
No sign ; hence fear was banished, for they knew 
I must depart, and so could be deceived. 
I watched for guilty paramour of her 
Who bore, to thus degrade my honored name. 
Oh, shame, oh agony ! dissembling thus ! 
What rage and horror of dishonor felt. 
At times I rushed from out the house in fear 



Edalaine. 1 9 1 

Lest passion overcame desire for just 

Revenge to strike to earth this woman, who 

Had held my name so light. I waited not 

In vain, for soon I tracked the pair to this 

Same street, and shame, a million times more great 

I felt, dishonor, grief, ingratitude 

Forced on my soul at once ; for he who dealt 

The mortal blow was one I'd cherished long. 

He was the only one I ever loved 

Beyond the parents who had blessed my youth. 

But more than that and worse, O Edalaine, 

That I must be so cruelly debased, 

One mother bore us both I" and here his voice 

To whispers that its horror full betrayed 

Had sunk. 

" You wonder that I let them pass 
With life? I knew their sins would find them out. 
I made no sign, but kept them both in view 
Till born her child. I faced her with her guilt 



192 Edalaine, 

And his; but she, with obstinacy strange, 
Denied the charge, until I thought her crazed. 
I gave her means, and sent her far from home 
On pain of utter ruin and disgrace 
Before the world. I made him disappear 
Unknown to her. The child had reached three 

years 
When some one where she dwelt had found a clue 
To her identity. Again I sent 
Her forth. The child first died, and she in grief 
Took ill, was carried from the ship, and then 
Came word that, fever setting in, she, too, 
Had gone to answer for her grievous sin. 
Then came a letter, never read, for why 
Take notice of such glaring subterfuge ?" 
He paused, and Edalaine — 

M Your reason is 
At fault, you quite forget that even sin 
Hath right to plead its cause, as you have plead 



E da lain e. 193 

Unconsciously within my heart by this 
Sad tale." 

" O Edalaine, 'tis not the worst ! 
For five long years, without belief in God 
Or man, I've lived to prove that naught remains 
But ill ; have sought to bring the ruin which 
When wrought I spurned with contumely and jest; 
Have given curses, and had curses rained 
On me." 

His hearer shuddered. " Oh, my friend, 
How aches my heart to know that, wronged, you 

know 
Not grace of soul to cast its poison forth, 
Hast thou ne'er seen the ruddy apples heaped 
Upon the ground of some New England field ? 
Nor marked that when a rotten apple crushed 
'Gainst cheek of ruddiest, firmest apple, there 
It soon decayed, till, truthfully with you, 
One might exclaim, 'They all are rotten-cored, 



194 Edalainc. 

This apple had a rosy cheek, but see, — 
Tis like the rest*!' forgetful that its own 
Impurity hath brought decay. Good friend, 
We make the world, and for our peace of mind 
Must shield us from the sin by calling forth 
The good. Some gross mistake exists. That you 
Were wronged I do not doubt, yet not all wrong. 
Your wife who expiates her sin — yes, still 
She expiates her sin — start not, your wife 
Still lives to suffer; and though woman-born 
Myself, and therefore stern disposed, perhaps, 
Tow'rd sin that blots th' escutcheon of my sex, 
Her grief, her patience, her fortitude, and more, — 
Her innocence, — leave me to doubt but that 
Her punishment was greater than her sin. 
And she more wronged than sinning.'' 

Arnold Deith 
Had buried now his face, his attitude 
Was hopelessness itself. 



Edalaine. 195 

" Oh, Arnold Deith, 
Be just, if not for them, your soul's best good 
Demands that you should know the very truth." 
He started as with anger. " What, debase 
Myself by inquiry? What matters it ? 
The sin was palpable enough. I ask 
What palliation of the wrong could there 
Exist?" 

And Edalaine — " Would not there be 
Some comfort, could you know at least the man 
You loved had never wronged you ; that instead 
He sought to guard the honor of your wife, 
And you by shielding her? Such things have 
been, 

And she" 

" But," angrily he silenced her, — 
tl Imagination may do much for minds 
More weak, but I am right, and that you shield 



ig6 Edalaine. 

The acts of those who've wronged me seems most 

strange." 
" Nay, Arnold, you do wrong, believe, to my 
Best motives; you are hurt and angered, so 
At present, cannot understand that souls 
Are only ministered by good when free 
From that foul taint of sin by others done. 
Oh, lay some balm upon thy suffering heart 
In thinking though I have been wronged, let me 
Be merciful, that mercy may bedew 
My life/' 

" Ah, Edalaine, 'tis easy said, 
But when the iron hath pierced a pride like mine 
And at the very moment when I thought 
I clutched a saving hand, as once I dreamed 
To find in thee, again the ghosts arise 
From out the past, to snatch it from my grasp. 
Why talk of hope in anything ?" 

"And am 



Edalaine, 197 

I less your friend than half an hour aback? 
Nay, now I feel I can be friend, and aid." 
" Be friend ! I love you, Edalaine, and till 
I thought myself quite free to ask your love, 
Say, did I not avoid your presence when 
It seemed most strange ? You never noted it, 
But oft I've fled your presence, did not dare 
Meet eyes that looked in mine so fearlessly, 
Lest they should read the passion of my soul 
Awakened by their purity." 

" I knew 
I wronged you by my ling'ring doubts. Say more- 
Than that I cannot, for it is not meet 
To broach myself. Recall the words I said 
So long ago, ' I ne'er shall wed/ alas, 
The sentence hides a life-long woe, which, told, 
Might aid your spirit to a nobler trust 
In duties of this life above desires. 
But that must be when you have proved by acts 



198 Eclalaiiie. 

The bitterness within your heart has been 
O'ercome ; and first of all I'd lend in part 
Your heart somewhat the pity that I feel 
For Geraldine." 

"And would you have me take 
Her back again ?" his eyes held dangerous light. 
" She would not choose to daily read within 
Your eyes the guilt upon her soul, if guilt — 
A voluntary guilt — there be. But think 
You not, in useful life some place would come 
If you could meet her once and hear her wrongs? 
For such I feel they were." 

"If they were wrongs 
Why came she not at once to me?" he said, 
Impatient yet at her discourse. 

" Are you 
So gentle in your charities that one 
So timid did not fear some wrongful act ? 
And if, I say, once met, you could but say, 



Edalaine. 199 

' Poor Geraldine, go thou thy way, I'm not 

Thy judge, and can forgive what more hath 

wronged 
Thyself,' think you it would not bring some peace 
Into the desolation of that life?" 
" 'Tis very fine, dear Edalaine, but not 
The creed that's lettered in my heart, and you 
Can scarcely understand (since that you know 
Not love) the double bitterness to-day. 
Deceived by one, unloved by other, yet 
A slave to both. A weaker man would say, 
With heartfelt bitterness, ' O Death, where is 
Thy sting?'" 

" Ah, that to live needs greater strength 
At times than choosing death, all living know. 
Nor would we yield with Hamlet that the grave 
Hath ills unknown the more than life, for who 
Can truthfully foretell the griefs to come ?" 
And then her own strength feeling much the strain 



200 Edalaine, 

Of such discourse, she stretched her hand to him. 

''Think not, good friend, my life hath not its ills, 

Perhaps more hard to bear for being hidden. 

Refuse my friendship, mine the loss, nor can 

I change the impulse of my heart to hate." 

"A woman may, perhaps," he said, u find means 

To modify a love to friendship's code. 

Not so a man, and I belie my strength 

To promise it, at least until I've learned 

The magic alchemy you fain would teach, 

To touch to sweet the bitterness my life 

Hath known. 'Tis pity that the art's not known 

More widely." Then with smile of bitterness 

Had touched her hand with burning lips, and went 

Ere she could frame a last farewell. 

Oh, weight 
Of woe ! It seemed some dream, and yet her grief 
Has mingled with so much of his and that 



Edalaine. 201 

Of Geraldine, so much of query, hope, 

And, too, despair she scarce could tell, if hers 

Or theirs, touched most her heart. 



BOOK V, 

And now a cloud had settled over France 
Had crept above the brilliant capitol, 
Until its slowly gathering folds had wrapped 
Themselves about its spires, crept through its 

streets, 
Enveloping and clouding all its cheer, 
And ominous, was heard at intervals 
The sound of musketry. " Our youth do fear 
To lose their skill," some said, but wiser ones 
Then shook the head and murmured, •' Nay, not so, 
Such sounds portend much graver mark; and balls, 
Not shot alone do there resound, and spurt 

Of blood responds to well timed aim. The air 

[203] 



204 Edalaine* 

Is foul with presence of an enemy." 

And then again the sounds had ceased, to be 

Forgotten, timid ones took heart, these last, 

The maid that waited for her bridal morn, 

Or mother of some noble son who burned 

To walk in footsteps of his fallen sire. 

And oft this last, from out some sacred nook, 

Or recess of their humble homes, took down 

The gun tow'rd which from earliest youth he'd 

looked 
With vague alarm, and then, when older grown, 
Had listened to its history with cheeks 
Aflame, resolved if ever war broke forth, 
That gun should bring him victory, or death. 
And now, in secret, lest the wish out-sped 
The coming of the storm, with loving hand, 
The youth, while fancy painted pageantry 
Of war where prancing steeds and cries, " La France 
Et Liberie 1 aussi^ brought victory, 



Edalaine. 205 

He polishes the sturdy steel, half awed 

To think his sire one time had done the same. 

" But now we meet another foe, ma foi /' 

He mused, " les gens let / to think to conquer us !" 

And not too soon, each peasant grasped his gun. 

The cloud descended till it wrapped their loved, 

And beauteous city in its treach'rous folds, 

And strangers, whether pleased or not, could find 

No means to make escape. Some felt to flee 

Was sheer ingratitude tow'rd nation that 

Had sheltered them in prosperous days, and made 

The cause their own. Dean Brent was one of 

these, 
And Edalaine had said, " I too can aid." 
Her sister feared for her. " Is't not enough 
My husband gives his skill and we our work 
At home ?" But Edalaine saw greater need 
Within the teeming hospitals. " Not all," 
She said, " had teaching such as we at home, 



206 Edalaine. 

Nor know the skillful touch these sufferers 

Do need." And so there burned upon her breast 

The Scarlet Cross ; that sacred sign that made 

Of foes a brotherhood. Where'er she walked 

Its gleam oped wide the ranks to let her pass. 

Confusion's self, would oft give way at sign 

Or word, " I am a servant of the cross." 

One day they came to say a lady ask'd 

For her, and through the crowded wards she 

walked, 
Too full of homely cares to wonder or 
To ask " What name?" At cry half plaintive, half 
Afraid, of " Edalaine !" she clasped with joy 
The trembling form of Arnold's wife. "You are 
Not angry that I came, 'twas you advised 
To choose some useful work, and I am come 
To do somewhat my share." 

" But you, so frail, — " 
Cried Edalaine, then seeing tears begin 



Edalazne. 207 

To rise within the limpid eyes, lest come 
She prove unwelcome, " here in truth you'll find 
The need of gentle hand and tender look, 
They often soothe severest wound beyond 
The doctor's skill." 

And Geraldine soon felt 
Her usefulness, forgot herself amidst 
The suffering, until a dainty pink 
Shone through the lilies of her face, and light 
Of happiness had brighten'd sombre eyes. 
A faithful bearer of the cross, content 
She ne'er had known now dwelt within her heart. 
The name of Arnold Deith ne'er passed the lips 
Of Edalaine, who mused, " Why probe a wound 
Till healing can be brought, and now sometimes 
She feared it never could be done, she saw 
As yet no clear solution of the way 
To straighten, in the embittered lives of those 
She fondly loved, such strangely tangled threads. 



208 Edalaine. 

At times she tried to doubt of Geraldine. 

Impossible ! And once she questioned her. 

" Dear Edalaine, my brain has near gone mad 

In efforts vain to solve the mystery 

That shrouds the sin that blots my life. The sin 

'Tis like you have divined, but more than that, 

I would I might relate, an endless round 

Of queries in my mind o'er problem that 

Is never near solution, frights a mind 

More strong than mine, and Oh, dear Edalaine, 

Your confidence and love have brought me hope 

That gives me strength to live !" 

'Midst roll of drum, 
The call of troops, excitements, fears and ills 
Of the besieged and anxious city, thoughts 
Found daily cares that crowded from the mind 
One's individual woes. Sometimes a word 
From Arnold Deith reached Edalaine. He too 
Had found much need of work. To Edalaine 



Edalaine* 209 

He wrote to flee the dangers yet unknown ; 

Still found it in his power to aid her leave 

The now beleaguered city, would she go? 

"You are unkind," she answered him, "to wish 

Me comprehend that only helplessness 

Can be the lot of womankind. Men stay, 

And why not I, since envious the work 

They do, urged on by roll of drum, the sound 

Of thrilling strains, till these are merged to din 

And roar of battle, clash of steel, and cries 

That fire ambitious souls to something outside 

The consciousness of personal alarms. 

Our countrymen would say : how strange that you 

And I, nay, all Americans that fired 

To deep enthusiasm, do their part. 

'Tis not their land, it's hardly natural ! 

Has then humanity a native land ? 

And too, what happiness the thought, whoe'er 

The exile, quick to sympathize and do, 



210 Edalaine. 

But may not find a welcome in the hearts 

Of suffering humanity. To-day 

A soldier died upon my arm. His one 

Faint smile, the last, would aid me toil for those 

Who are not learned in gentle gratitude. 

Our best in this strange labyrinth, — the right 

And wrong of life, is done because we say 

We knew not how to help ourselves. And then 

Some kindly soul would flatter us. We are 

Inspired now the word recalls the fact 

You told me once I was inspired and must 

Succeed. May not one be a second time 

Inspired, this time to drop awhile the thought 

Of selfish aims ?" And so the letter closed. 

Yet Edalaine had been unlike her sex 

Had not such thoughtful care brought restfulness,, 

And with it feelings of security. 

Steadily disease amidst the maimed 



Edalaine. 211 

Crept in, and touched the brow of one, breathed 

o'er 
The lips of others till, unwelcome guest, 
He held the secrets, ruled with dread the house. 
Fearlessly amidst contagious ills 
And added cares, walked Edalaine, her calm 
And cheerful spirit lending hope to those 
Who would have fled from out the wretched place. 
Nor was the dread procession at an end. 
The weighty ambulance — forerunner grim 
Of blight, disease, of pain and death itself, 
Came day or night to leave its moaning charge. 
One day, as Geraldine had loosed the band 
That half concealed the face of one poor man, 
Who, conscious, suffered agonies of death, 
She gave a cry, and, ere they reached her side, 
Fell fainting to the floor. 

" Poor child," they said, 
"The sight was more than she couid bear." 



2 1 2 Edalaine. 

" Alas !" 
The doctor sighed, "I fear 'tis more than fright. 
She has been brave enough ere now, at sight 
Of cruel marks of hatred and of strife, 
May God forbid it being fell disease." 
When Edalaine had seen her friend restored 
To speech, she said : 

" No more to-day, my friend 
You must have rest." 

" Oh, no, it was not that — 
I thought, O grief !" — and then her lips turned 

pale, 
And once again she slipped from consciousness. 
'Twas long before her eyelids oped themselves, 
And then the doctor would not let her speak. 
" Be quiet, dear," entreated Edalaine, 
" Myself will take the cares that fall to you." 
A grateful glance scarce answered her, ere gone. 
She understood, when bending o'er the cot 



Edalaine. 2 1 3 

Of him the surgeons sought to ease, and felt 
Her own heart give a sudden bound of fright. 
" How foolish, yet there is a likeness found. 
Poor child, I understand ! How well she hides 
The gritf that's ever present to her heart !' 
'Twas midnight. Long the patient slept through 

aid 
Of drugs the doctors left, when suddenly 
He spoke : " Ah, look, 'tis he ! My brother leads 
The column on the right, I'll reach his side 
Or meet my death ! Say, friend, remember this, 
If fate decrees that I must fail, you'll find 
The papers here, which give into his hand, — 
Oh, God ! I'm lost — they're ordered to the rear ! 
The foe now moves between my friends and me I 
I see him now, — alas ! he falls, — if death, 
I'd scarcely yield a sigh, so welcome like 
Would be to me ! Thank God, 'tis come, I die !" 
At this he sprang upright, when Edalaine 



214 Edalaine. 

Till now a startled listener, had touched 
His arm. 

" Be quiet, sir, you're safe with friends, 
Your papers lie beside your hand. All's done 
That can be done till health returns to you." 
Amazed, he gazed upon her face. 

" Till health— 
I thought the end had come, and must I die again ? 
Who knows ? I may be doomed, alas, 
To hundred deaths?" 

11 Not so, good friend, the death 
We most do fear more lenient is, perhaps, 
Than Pain, who sometimes takes upon himself 
His semblance pale." 

Soothed once again by words 
Of hopefulness, the patient slept for hours. 
When next he woke, long time he lay in thought, 
Or watched the face of Edalaine that now, 
Deep lost in meditation, witness bore 



Edalaine. 215 

Of ever present grief. At last aware 

He wakeful lay, she bent above the cot. 

" You're better, sir, can aught be done for you?'* 

" I'm better, yes, the calm preceding death. 

My pain is gone, affrighted by the touch 

And chill of death that's creeping through my 

limbs. 
Nay, — listen, 'tis but truth : Sometimes the vail 
Is torn from off our sight, revealing sense 
Of things unknown in health, so now with me. 
Thine eyes beseech me live for sake of friends, 
They also tell me trust my woes to thee. 
Then lend me now thy listening ear to learn 
A tale that proves our very virtues are, 
Sometimes, the pitfall of unwary feet. 
We claim we have the will to make our world 
When circumstance can weave intangibly 
A chain, to trip the footsteps of the wise, 
That once unlinked would make him seem a fool. 



2 1 6 Edalaine. 

In youth I came to France. My father's wealth 

Placed all advantages of knowledge 'neath 

My very hand, and more than that, I spent, 

As boys will do, a goodly share of time 

In folly and in search of pleasures vain. 

It fell that, in a home to which my name 

Had given free access, I met a girl 

Whose beauty woke my youthful heart to love. 

Both loved — but vainly. All my wealth could not 

Atone for differences of birth, lest that 

She followed me to share my native land. 

The more they sought to break the bond, the more 

We clung to love, until our fate was sealed. 

We planned a flight, but were betrayed and failed, 

And she was sent from Paris to the home 

Of one who nursed her as a child. But love 

Finds means to balk his enemies, and gold 

Unlocks the strongest bars. I found her nurse. — 

Enough. At last in secret we were wed. 



Edalaine. 2 1 7 

The months rolled by, a child was born, and still 
Her parents thought her banishment but just, 
And righteous chastisement in that she e'er 
Declared herself not yet content to yield. 
Alas ! though safely passed a period 
We feared might bring discovery, there came 
A sudden call for me to turn tow'rd home. 
My father ill, I dared not find excuse, 
And, torn between two terrible extremes, 
I said farewell ; but she, as if her strength 
Refused one grief the more, had breathed her last, 
'Ere I had reached my home, while till the last 
She prayed her parents ne'er should know the 

truth. 
' Tis useless that I here repeat the grief, 
Despair and hopelessness my life then knew, 
And had our child not lived, my strength to face 
My life had fled with hers. 

At last I hid 



2 1 8 Edalaine, 

My heavy grief beneath the garb of priest, 

And so estranged my father's heart. One friend, 

My brother, now remained to me, and he 

Upheld my steps through days of poverty 

And grief, nor knew what drove me thus to wear 

The heavy cross. At last he too, was wed. 

There is no love,' he said, ' on either side, 

It is my father's wish, through pride of birth. 

She weds me for my father's gold, I — well, 

I have not loved and am not like to know 

Its mastery — why should I not please him ? 

His bitterness against one son is quite 

Enough.' 

I shuddered at his coldness then, 
For, many years my junior, yet he seemed 
A cynic born. 

His wife was young and gay, 
But pure and amiable, nor seemed to know 
How serious 'twas to wed, and, from the first; 



Edalaine. 2 1 9 

I vowed, scarce thinking that such oath could 

mean 
So much, to guard from her all ills that might 
Beset her path, and wake to grief the man 
I loved above all else. 

One day she came 
For absolution — for her faith was mine — 
' O holy father, absolution make 
For sins of thought; a youth has come 
Into my life, and though we never spoke, 
His ardent gaze hath taught me life hath much 
I cannot understand, — I scarce can breathe 
When looks he so, and 't seems to me I do 
His will and not mine own.' 

I questioned her, 
I gave advice, and more, I followed her 
To see with mine own eyes the youth who thus 
Had waked a sleeping heart. Alas, alas ! 
Oh, complications strange of daily life ! 



220 Edalaine. 

It was my son ! and yet not claimed as mine. 

He knew me only as his teacher, friend, 

And confidant. I turned tow'rd home half 

stunned. 
My brother absent oft for months, knew not 
The peril of unloved, unloving wife. 
And I scarce knew how best to interfere 
Without some serious harm. And day by day 
I waited. Sad mistake ! The torrents vast 
Of pent-up love are swifter, fiercer far 
Than else can be." The speaker paused to 

breathe 
And tried to speak again, " And Geraldine " — 
But here his voice had fluttered on his lips, 
A purplish, ghastly white shot o'er his face, 
The light within his sunken eyes was quenched, 
And Edalaine, in sudden agony, 
Hung o'er the senseless form to know if this 
Indeed were death. It could not, must not be, 



E da lame. 221 

That death would rilace his seal upon a truth 
Important to her heart ! the brother this, 
And had he not desired to tell the tale 
To clear himself ? 

At last a flicker touched 
His lips, 'twas scarce a breath, but like a shade 
That touches trees and flowers so light we half 
Believe it fancy of our sight, for clouds 
Are absent from the sky, it touched his cheek, 
Then moved across his brow and o'er his lids 
Had trembled. Once again she touched his lips 
With cordials, rubbed emaciated hands, and 
Stroked the pallid brow until the lids 
Had slowly lifted, but the poor, weak lips 
Could frame no words. Once more she bathed the 

lips. 
" Too late, read this!" the lips then whispered her, 
" I did my best, my best, forgive, for — !" 
She closed the eyes and gently loosed the hands 



222 Edalaine. 

That grasped against his breast the written word, 

Laid straight the Jimbs, then closed the sightless 

eyes, 

And all within the room, scarce consciously, 

Placed carefully to rights. 

" Poor soul ! too late to reach 

The goal forgiveness, yet I feel his life 

Was marked by some great act of sacrifice. 

Be mine the happiness," she mused, " to swift 

Completion crown the work he left undone ! " 
* * -k **-■** * 

As morning broke upon the slumbering world 
In presence of the dead, with reverent hands 
She slipped the ribbon from the written sheets 
And read : 

" Oh, punishment, more fleet thy course 
To overtake unwary, stumbling feet ! 
My cross was weighty ever, now, alas, 
I sink beneath its added grief and care I 



Edalaine. 223 

One day while I absorbed in study sat 

Alone, my son, for so I dare to call 

Him here, burst, unannounced, upon the room. 

His face was pale, his manner wild, distracted. 

Beholding me, he wrung his hands and cried : 

1 Oh, holy father, pity me and take 

My life ! I cannot, dare not live ! My look, 

My touch pollutes this holy place, pollutes 

Your presence ! Pity me, and take my life !' 

Long time it was, while agony my heart 

Had filled with dire imaginings of wrong, 

Ere I could learn from him the crime he wept. 

Oh, shame ! I scarce can pen the wretched tale ! 

He long had followed Geraldine, and felt 

Himself at first by her beloved, and then 

She would not meet his pleading eyes, or glanc'd 

But coldly at him when he passed. He swore 

Some enemy had poisoned her against 

His love, as if she knew his friends or foes! 



224 Edalaine. 

And then, Hope bearing him on wide-spread 

wings, 
He vowed such love as his could only live 
As echo of her purer heart. 'She loves, 
As I love her, could I but reach her side !' 
And more and more his love to madness burned, 
When, following that day, he found 
The maid had left her seated in the ' Bois ' 
Alone, and watching there her lovely face, 
He saw her head droop 'gainst a tree until 
She slept. 

* My love!' he whispered bending there, 
1 What chance but fate that leaves thee to my care?' 
And .as he gazed, temptation seized and ruled 
The fevered spirit of his heart. Within 
His breast he bore an Oriental drug, 
Most potent 'gainst all evils and disease ; 
Or drawn into the lungs the dreamy soul 



Edalaine. 



225 



Could steep in ecstacy, or warp the will 

To stronger minds. Swift glancing round that 

none 
Observed, he placed upon her dainty lace 
A crystal drop from which arose like mist 
A subtle odor, — first a tremor moved 
Her blue-veined lids, and then her lips apart 
Like leaves of roses trembled to a smile. 
An instant served to bear her from the spot 
To hail a carriage and be gone. And here 
The youth with sobs was shook, then spake : 

1 Oh, joy 
Supreme, to bear her in my arms, my life, 
My own ! And frenzied quite with joy, I reached 
My street, dismissed the man, and hastened thro' 
The court, as yet observed by none. I clasped 
My treasure ! How I joyed o'er her, and when 
The drug was nearly spent, her senses scarce 
Beneath the spell, what new delight to feel 



226 Edalaine. 

Her conscious that caresses showered themselves 
On her, until a dagger pierced my heart, 
When, in her murmured words I heard her name 
Another ! " Husband, then you love your wife ! 
And 'tis no shame to feel my pulse beat high 
With love for thee !" At words like these my heart 
Stood still, the rapture of its purer love 
Then died, and hate for him, desire for her 
Alone remained — and, holy father, there 
The innocent doth lie, of crime I've done, 
Unhappy victim ! while I know too late 
As, waking to its dread enormity, 
I've only earned her hatred and contempt.' 
1 She waked to consciousness?' I sternly asked. 
' To consciousness, and yet she never ceased 
To name me Arnold, and her love.' 

1 Thank God 
For that !' Forgetting then my priesthood's 
vows, 



Edalaine. 227 

My love for him, with curse I drove him forth. 
A father's awful curse, and threatened him 
With instant death, if e'er he ventured near 
The shores of France. 

I saved my brother's wife 
From lightest word, for she awoke at home. 
Ofttimes she wore a strange and puzzled air, 
Or oped her lips as if she'd speak to me, 
Then hesitation turned her speech. One day, 
Confessing sin that she had feared, not done, 
She said : ' I cannot tell, — but memory 
Or dreams do mock my thoughts, — my husband 

came, 
And Oh, my father, love was born in me, 
A love I never knew before, and then 
A blank came o'er my dream, and now I know 
'Twas vain, although my consciousness cannot 
Gainsay its truth.' 



228 Edalaine. 

Some months had passed when you, 
My brother, came, and oft I trembled lest 
You saw the change. 

' My dreams were mockery,' 
She said to me, ' My husband seems more stern 
Than e'er before, and when I told my dream 
He gazed at me with bitter scorn ! His looks 
Demanded secrets which I ne'er have held.' 
Alarmed at this, I bore for her a guilt 
Of which her soul was pure. Her health declined, 
And more the puzzled air dwelt on her face. 
I then persuaded her a doctor seek, 
And he in turn, through sign from me, had pressed 
Upon her mind the needs of country air. 
Aware of what now menaced her, I firm 
Resolved to hold from you the wretched truth, 
The consequence of other's sin. 

You traced 
Our steps, and laid the blame of wrong on me. 



Edalaine. 229 

Too deeply stunned, I dared not tell the truth, 

I dared not rouse within her mind again 

The image of the youth whose glance had waked 

Her heart, then left it guarded by its own 

Fair innocence. I could not then betray 

My son, and silently I bowed to blame, 

Too late aware it was my greatest sin. 

God knows 'twas much to give in love for thee ; 

For her, and him, the son I cursed and loved. 

That day thy rage had torn me from the spot, 

Yet all my thought was grief for Geraldine, 

Who stood accused of guilt unarmed with proofs 

Of innocence. 

Three years I passed on seas 
Of trackless breadth before I found the means 
To turn toward home, and when I came I found 
No trace of her. I entered the defence 
Of Paris, there at least I found a clue 
I thought would lead to thee. I could not die, 



230 Edalaine. 

And hope to sleep in peace, with weight of wrongs 

Like these upon my soul. Alas, I fail. 

The changing scenes, the perils of these times 

Do mock me all, God grant my strength fail not." 

And here the story ended, while his pen 

Had added, with a trembling hand, the words: 

11 In that I loved thee much, my best beloved, 

My brother, suffered I the more. Alas ! 

It hath not spared to thee a bitter grief. 

How can we mortals choose the way ? Oar best 

Is oft the worst, and he who tangles first 

The tiny threads that weave the mesh of life, 

Is tripped thereby his weary life-time through! 

Forgive, my brother, Geraldine, forgive, 

And love at least thy brother's memory, 

Who'd gladly give his worthless life for thee 

And thine. M And then bedewed with many a tear, 

Was traced the boyhood's name, and Edalaine, 



Edalaine. 231 

Witli swelling heart exclaimed, " God grant to him 

His written prayer !" 

# •* # * * * * 

Not at an end the cares of Edalaine. 

The dead to earth restored, her living charge 

Was Geraldine, whose fluctuations 'twixt 

The grave and life, had filled her anxious heart 

With sad misgivings. 

Geraldine had said : 
11 The end is come, why seek to baffle death? 
The summer ends with winter blasts ; the leaves, 
When nature fills requirements of her law, 
Do fall to mingle with the earth again. 
I do not ask why was I born, who knows ? 
The butterfly that flutters through one day 
Has like, less need to ask," and Edalaine — 
" Hush, child, the moths devote to tasks of love 
Tow'rd fellow creatures, must have taught thee laws 
Of recompense. Look back upon your youth 



232 



Edalaine. 



That now seems distant, less from years than pain. 
Had joy the conscious meaning of to-day ? 
" The meaning of all earthly joy is past. 
To thrilling of one word life's pulses stir, 
And that would prove, I think, the golden key 
To open wide the doors of future bliss. 
Forgiveness mine, my pilgrimage is done. 
Nay, Edalaine, chide not the wish to die. 
'Tis God that taketh thus the sting of death, 
By dimming worldly joys when comes the hour 
To go — this peaceful longing to be gone, — 
The blessing from His hand, disarming death. 
The sweetest joys of life would seem a weight 
I could not choose, and if I long to hear 
One voice again, 'tis that I know while sweet 
To be forgiven, so forgiving brings 
Its blessedness, and I my saddened life 
Would end with twice-told blessings crowned." 



E da lain c. 233 

And she, 
The listener, was silent. " Will he come ?" 
" You know, dear Edalaine," the other spoke, 
" I never loved the man I wed and wronged, 
Until too late. I was a child to whom 
They pictured life of freedom ; sacrificed 
My youth to spare the name my father bore. 
I ne'er had learned as yet what freedom meant. 
And when I might have learned, 'twas there I 

failed ! 
Oh, Edalaine ! What have I done to bring 
Upon my life and those who claimed respect, 
Such shame?" And like a wounded deer, her 

eyes 
Bespoke her agony, then drowned themselves 
In tears whose passion frightened Edalaine. 

Her plaint, the only witness of her grief, 
Seemed come from out a tortured heart that half 



234 Edalaine. 

Was frightened when 'twas done, that she had 

dared 
Complain, though suddenly it swept across 
Her weary heart the wrong she had endured. 
" Be calm, dear Geraldine, I pray, such grief 
Endangers life, I could not tell it you 
Before, you were too ill, and now I wish 
You were content with sole assurance that 
The accusation 'gainst your name must be 
Withdrawn, by proofs that echo from beyond 
The grave. There is no conscious wrong for which 
To plead forgiveness.'' So at last she soothed 
The stricken one. 

At midnight came a sound 
Of clattering hoofs, and softly Edalaine 
Had led the way to bed-side of her friend. 
" There's some one here, dear Geraldine." 

" I know," 
She said, " I heard the horseman, then the step 



Edalaine. 235 

Of Arnold. God hath marked the sparrow s fall, 
I die in peace if he — " 

And Arnold clasped 
Her in his arms. 

11 Poor, suffering dove ! 
What sacrifice would not be made if all 
That's past could be undone. Poor Geraldine ! 
Forgiveness from your lips were sweet. To ask 
I dare not." Edalaine then softly closed 
The door upon a scene she thought to see 
Was worth the being born. 

When later she 
Returned, the dawn was resting o'er the land ; 
Already had it drawn in clear-cut lines 
Each branch or vine that clambered o'er the Church 
That served them in this time of need as house 
Of refuge for the sick, and as the wind 
Had swayed religiously the trees, it seemed 
To Edalaine that Peace then moved across 



236 Edalaine. 

The scene to leave a benediction o'er 
The sleeping world. 

Like chiseled marble lay 
The lovely face of Geraldine against 
Her husband's breast, but when he spoke, she 

oped 
Her eyes and smiled on Edalaine. 

" Good-bye." 
And then he stooped to catch her murmured 

words. 
" Remember — love, my — Edalaine — dear Ar — !" 
The weary life was done. 

The longed-for peace 
Had come to France, and while the scars of strife 
Must live for generations in the hearts 
Of men, time covered o'er its ruder touch 
On wall, on temple ; tower, of war-swept towns, 
And once again fair Paris ruled the world 



Edalaine. 237 

Of fashion ; once again awoke to art, 
And lured its students from all lands and climes. 
The life of Edalaine, since fearlessly 
She bade a last farewell to Arnold Deith, 
Had lost its charm — 'twas when he told to her 
The dying words of Geraldine and said : 
"The angel choir must weep if we do part." 
" Twere better that their tears bedew the right 
We do, than weep a curse I'd bring mankind." 
And then she told him what her cross must be. 
" Oh, Edalaine, thou art too sensible, 
To let the chatter of those ignorant 
Old dames such gloomy heritage portend 
To wrong thy strong young life and wreck my 
love. 

And if thy fear and reasoning were just, 
Who has more right to dedicate their life 
To thee, what'er it bring ?" 



238 Edalazne. 

" Thou, Arnold Deith, 
Wouldst make such sacrifice, wouldst choose a 

wife 
Whose light may go out utterly, not pale 
To silence while the senses fail ; their last, 
Best sense, the seeing, hearing, touching thee? 
Not that, but go out horribly, one sense 
Betraying all the rest. Mine eyes see hate 
Within thine eyes ; this life discolored, till 
The strangeness of my glance would sting thee 

more 
Than venom of a serpent, telling thee 
It is thy love's — thy wife's, or if escaped — 
(And here, like rose that sleeps within a shell, 
The color dyed the rounded cheek, then swept 
Off white the coral lips) and if escaped 
(I have escaped as yet) a score of years, 
How could you bear our children weighing words 
Of her — their mother, glances sharp as prick 



Edalaine. 239 

Of needles shoved straight to the eye, not less 
The sure that furtively it's done?" 

" Nay, love," 
" Nay, Arnold, perfect love like thine was meant 
For no such sacrifice in saying yes, 
As woman's lonely heart would lead me do, 
For building me a niche above the needs 
Of love, my weary wings oft flutter prone to earth 
Of other women, till my reason cries 
Who, what art thou, that seekst to float an isle, 
And live without the distance man proscribed 
Of air, nor breathe like them the oxygen allowed, 
And when thy lungs hath used its store, flat falls 
Thy weight as theirs might do. In saying yes, 
This yes of other women, easy said, 
I'd feel a doom pronounced to happiness 
That now lives sole in knowledge of this love, 
That is so great it deems no sacrifice, 
To still declare in face of witnesses 



240 Edalaine. 

Like these, my life long fears, — I love thee, love, 
My Edalaine, and live to wear thee on 
My breast." 

The words like burning lava poured 
Across her lips that seemed, with all her form, 
A carven image cold to look upon. 
And once she smiled — why, tears were not so sad, 
And she who never spoke that all her form 
Was not in consonance and thrilled to tips 
Of rosy fingers, she, whose earnest soul 
Was animate in every graceful curve 
Of neck, of wrist, of silence' self, now stood 
A frozen image of herself, and spoke 
As if she feared to hear her own sad words. 
And he who listened was not, strange to tell, 
Quite dumb to understanding of her strange 
And frozen way, and then, as if to melt 
The ice with which she proudly clothed herself, 
He caught her in his arms and wept o'er her, 



Edalaine. 241 

With sudden kisses wiping out each tear 
That fell from his upon her drooping face. 
Releasing gently hands that held her fast, 
She looked at him again. 

" No hope?" Alas, 
The gloom remained within her eyes, and there 
He read his doom, and so once more he went 
'Midst dangers, while she turned to walk alone. 
But art had lost its power, or else she found 
Her labors there too far from definite 
Fruition of their useful ends, and so, 
Oft questioned with herself, if life were not 
Unhinged, or else quite narrowed to the aim 
Existence only, then confessed to self — 
A woman, not an angel, mind — confessed 
Discouragement that art in song — the song 
That reached perfection, found no wider scope 
For mind, then technical precision, like 
Some mechanism which, once set, will make 



242 Edalaine. 

Its ceaseless round. A wheel within a wheel 
Will do the same, or engine at the touch 
Of master hand will speed the iron horse. 
And yet when borne upon the soaring wings 
Of soul-inspiring verse and perfect sound, 
These leaden weights, reality, were lost, 
And only sense of freedom — love, what love 
Should be, enthralled her being then, until 
Intoxicated with its pain or joy, 
She'd cry : " How blessed is the power of song!" 
But oftener of late she felt constrained 
To muse : " 'Tis art alone I give the world, 
For well I know the difference. My song 
Has lost its soul," and then, half smilingly, 
" It sure has gone a-gypsying," the smile 
Then dying to a sigh, she thought on one 
Who urged her once to sing, and, since he went, 
She'd rather weep. 



E da lain e. 243 

What weather vanes we are, 
We women, fit to do, we think, what men 
Have done, and then a passing face sets nerves 
A-tremble, till our awkward hand has blurred 
The figures on the black-board of our lives, 
And, all at once, the problem (nearly solved 
We thought) has lost its interest. We'd rub 
It wholly out but that we'd shame our past 
Perverseness. Now we wish, without the need 
Of knowing 'tis a wish, that he might come, 
And, holding fast resisting hands (we still 
Resist,) would take the sponge and deftly blot 
It out and set his problems there, or else 
Solve ours for us with flattering words, " You soil 
Those gentle hands, I see you have it, leave 
To me the finishing, while you look on." 
And then, safe sheltered in his arms, what ease 
To see mistakes and point them out, till he 
Thinks woman's wit beyond his own. 



244 Edalaine. 

One night 
She stood before a listening throng that drank 
The music that her lips poured forth, as if 
Athirst for all she gave. With every note 
They longed for more, when all at once a cry 
Rang through the place, that sent a thrill of fear 
And horror to each trembling heart. 

" Dear friends," 
The singer spoke, and something in her look 
Made each one oause to listen. 

" I am 'twixt 
The fire and you. I then beseech you, one 
And all, take no alarm, while here I wait 
Your quiet exit, life depends on that." 
And then, as if her will held back the ones 
Who felt themselves hemmed in by surging crowds, 
The tide swept slowly out, their latest glance 
Tow'rd her who stood like gleaming angel that 
Had said, "Obey, and I will give you life." 



Edalaine. 245 

Till last the waiting ones who watched her face, 
Thereon to read its hope or fear, were free 
To go, when some cried out to her in fear, 
As now they saw the darting flames above 
Her head, or dropping brands of fire. And one 
Rushed back to seize her bodily. But no, 
Before the stage was reached, she moved aside. 
The lines that held the curtain burned away, 
It fell with stunning crash between the two, 
A sheet of angry flame. The stranger paused 
To feel an iron hand upon his arm. 
" Go, seek your friends, 'tis mine the task to save 
Or perish there with her !" And then the smoke 
Swept through the place and hid the face of him 
Who spoke, to disappear amidst the flames. 
The fierce, mad element licked out each mark 
Of art within the place, devoured the walls 
With wild insatiate hate, and filled the hearts 
Of those that watched, with awe and thankfulness 



246 Edalaine. 

At their escape, or agony of fear 
For those who not yet found might be amidst 
The flames. And when a cry of joy had sped 
From lip to lip, they knew that Edalaine 
Had been from peril freed, unconscious yet 
To what had passed or loving words of him 
Who imperiled life in saving her. 

The morn 
That marked the horror of the night with charr'd* 
Remains, revealed that five poor victims lay 
Beneath the ruined walls, and Edalaine 
The sacred duty took upon herself 
To give them kindly burial, and wept 
Above the blackened forms of those who were 
Her humble aids while striving so to reach 
True excellence. 

* Five pupils of Francesco Lamperti were burned in an 
Opera House at Nice, and Julia Valda, an American then 
singing there, took charge of the remains. The maestro 
was unable to continue his duties for a year, such was the 
shock to his nerves. — Author. 



Edalaine. 247 

One day when all was past, 
And wonderingly she mused upon her own 
Escape, and marveled that she ne'er could learn 
The name of him who saved her life that night, 
The servant entered, bringing her a card. 
" Dear Edalaine," it read, " I scarce dare come, 
But something tells me that misfortune claims, 
As ever, gentle treatment at your hands, 
And I have such a longing for the voice 
Of some old friend, I cannot wait the day 
My ills have passed from me." And she with heart 
Whose strong emotion choked her voice, had said : 
11 Please send to me the bearer of this card." 
Then looked as if she fain would flee the room. 
And when a moment later, pale but calm, 
The face of Arnold Deith, — the broad, white brow 
The full and speaking eyes, had met her own, 
She stood a palpitating presence, while 
The well-known music of his voice had said, 






248 Edalaine. 

In playful tone, the speech pathetic made 
By truthfulness : 

" You see we stand apart. 
You needs must come to me, for though I still 
Can clasp your hands in two strong, friendly ones, 
I cannot reach your side quite yet without 
This aid." And here he marked with glance a 

crutch. 
She did not move, but seemed denied the power. 
Then, o'er her face there grew a glowing light, 
As, struggling with a doubt, it breaks away. 
The light transfused her eyes and speaking face, 
And with its glory she had seemed transformed. 
A mantle that had wrapped her round, seemed 

then 
To fall away, — the darkness of the doubt, 
And radiantly, as if she trod on air 
Or borne along by his desire, she reached 
His outstretched waiting arms, for o'er his soul 



Edalaitie. . 249 

The light had shed its glory, bringing joy 

He thought had been unborn for him. All earth 

Had turned to chaos as these two did solve 

The problem in a kiss, whose lingering touch 

Of passion breathed a sigh whose rapture swelled 

The chord of ecstacy to break against 

The shores of infinite bliss in shuddering moan. 

And she at last had voiced : " I might have known 

Who came to save a life I held but light 

If sacrificed for full a thousand lives !" 

And he with happy eyes: " Just that, I claimed 

What you had thrown away as valueless. 

You see," he laughed, " my generosity 

Was born of earth and is perhaps at fault. 

The life once yours is mine to hold and keep, 

I would not, if you wished, restore it you." 

At which, though silently, she looked at him, 

Her tender smile was tremulous with tears. 

The twilight sank to dusk, the dark to night, 



250 Edalaine. 

And still their thoughts were linked in ready 

words, 
The leaves of roses pricked together each 
With tiny thorn, as children weave in play 
Their garlands. So they made, more gravely, 

shroud 
To twine about the past at burial. 
And some without the thorns were garlanded, 
To strew, with eager heart, the path that stretched 
Beyond their feet. So strange that emblems serve 
So differently. We weep for grief, and yet 
How easy 'tis to show'r our joys with tears. 
A lark shot upward, caught the growing light 
Upon the wing, and sent to sleeping earth 
Ecstatic notes that herald joyous morn. 
The house cat stretched upon the narrow edge 
Of latticed fence, oped wide her green-gray eyes, 
To bathe them with the lambent light, and touch 
To yellow gold their sleepy disks, then stretched 
Her suppleness to lazier comfort. Leaves, 



E da lain e. 251 

Dyed black by night, assumed their dainty green, 
And then a flame of red shot o'er the sea 
Before he rose and whisoered : 

11 Edalaine, 
My pilgrimage is like the conqueror 
Who went from home in humble guise, but who 
Returning wears the royal crown and robes. 
'Tis more than I deserved, or hoped of late." 
" Ah, hush !" she said, " the conqueror must still 
Be merciful in dealing with the conquered, 
Or like worthy diplomat, receive a gift 
As if the favor were conferred else that 
My wilfulness betray again my heart. 
Your pow'r has waked me from the night-mare 

fear, 
And lo ! at your command, ' Believe,' I place 
My fingers wonderingly within the wound 
That's left by cruel nails upon the cross, 
And confident reply, ' I do believe.' 
And generous, you promise mc rny art— 



252 



Edalaine. 



Though man, in thinking it a bauble toy. 

But I accept the gift as if you knew 

Its worth. I willingly o'erlook the slight 

In recognition of the sacrifice, 

It may, perchance (though but a toy), demand. 

I know at last the loneliness of fame, 

The incompleteness of a life when once 

The magic hand has swept its slumbering strings 

To sound of love. I now can sing as ne'er 

Before. My life divided 'twixt my art 

And thee, had lost its power. Once more I know 

Completion, and can verify the truth. 

How slow we are to grow in mind ! I thought 

My art had nothing more, because my life 

Stood still. But art is broader, higher yet 

Than fame. To stop at fame were robbing art 

Of highest worth, the inner consciousness 

Of what art is, not comprehended quite 

By those who dip our name in crucible 

That luminous, is moulded to the word 



Edalaiue. 253 

Of 'Fame.' 

And he, with slowly budding smile : 
" But what will say the world of him who lets 
The bird once caged, wing other flights?" 

" Ah, there 
We meet again the blindness that hath naught 
Of sight beyond the meagreness of fame. 
One says, ' I'd never let any wife take wing.' 
Confessing so, and unaware, the man's 
Pure selfishness. That man would let his wife 
Bake bread, or mend his vest, go fetch his boots, 
His slippers, cap, his coat or wine ; do all 
Those things a servant better might have done, 
Learned only in such usefulness of life, 
And thinks himself unselfish that he takes 
From out her hand life's chosen work. He clips 
Her ready wings, until, no matter what 
Her flutterings may be, she fain must stay 
Content to hop around the homestead hearth, 
To peck the crumbs there thrown to her, and ape 



254 Edalaine, 

Humility that's born without the wings." 
He smiles indulgently, to hear her talk 
Half bitterly, and half with that contempt 
That's born observing yet the serfdom laid 
On womanhood, and whispered : 

" What of her 
Whose noble strength has stemmed the storms ? 

Will she 
At last be glad to fold awhile the wings ; 
Those weary wings, and rest at home with me?" 
" How, traitor, born a diplomat, I need 
Not say, be diplomatic still, you'd have 
Your way, convincing me I have my own !" 
" Oh, sweetest lips that ever spoke a truth, 
You steal my very thoughts and so I seal, 
The future while your lips are formed to shape 
The dear impertinence, — ' Can love e'er tell 
What love may do?' " 

FINIS. 





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